


Archive Of Encounters

by Lady_R



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: For even in a land as violent and complicated as Lordran, it's each of us that does the difference in the end. And like the thread of a tapestry, the stories of the heroes and the damned tangle up among each other: the only thing that's left once it all fades away.Sleep ~ Seath the ScalelessAddiction ~ Manscorpion TarkVagabond ~ Princess FilianoreCaptivity ~ Gwynevere, Queen of LothricWater ~ Chaos Witch QueelagBreathing ~ Dragonslayer OrnsteinCure ~ Alsanna, the Silent OracleOutburst ~ Rosaria, Mother of RebirthFlame ~ Gwyn, Lord of CindersAbsence ~ Lord's Blade CiaranPTSD ~ Company Captain YorshkaAdrenaline ~ Old Iron KingFever ~ Mytha, the Baneful QueenSurvivor ~ Ceaseless DischargeMiracle ~ Pontiff SulyvahnWar ~ Velstadt, the Royal AegisAbsolution ~ Painter GirlSpell ~ Dancer of the Boreal ValleyMedical Visit ~ Knight ArtoriasHidden Wound ~ Lorian, Elder PrinceFolie À Deux ~ High Lord WolnirGlacier ~ Yuria of LondorSex ~ NashandraMemory ~ Magus Eygil80s ~ Crossbreed PriscillaMisunderstanding ~ Gravelord Nito + Ensemble





	1. Nightly Sun

**Author's Note:**

> \- This story is a collection of twenty-six one-shots I have written in the past few months in my Italian account, for a challenge in a Facebook group about hurt/comfort. The starter of the challenge would give us a different prompt word each Monday, and we'd have a week to write a one-shot about it, referring to one of the two definitions of said word the moderator would also give us. After completing the challenge itself, I decided to translate it in English and post it here for the international public to enjoy.  
> \- The story takes place in my verse, containing headcanons and interpretations based off the way I personally see the world, plot and lore of Dark Souls. I am open to any question, clarification or different interpretation.  
> \- To every chapter, I have associated a song that fits the mood, situation and characters. Many of them will be pop songs (the recurring faces being The Weeknd and Lana del Rey). I like pop music. I put pop music in Dark Souls. I can do that.  
> \- I tried to make my cast of characters as diverse as possible, using white face references only when the character themself was canonically so (like with Gwyn's family, the Drangleic brothers or Ciaran), or in the rare cases in which I needed a specific face for the part (like Pontiff Sulyvahn/Richard Armitage, Shira/Taylor Schilling, Gertrude/Katherine Langford and Wolnir/Charles Dance). I also tried to be mindful of stereotypes and tokenism, and give all of them complexity. But alas, I am white, and I probably have made a mistake along the way. I am open to any criticism, and will try to listen and learn from any correction you may have to make.  
> \- Gwyndolin and Anri use they/them pronouns. I have come to this conclusion after consulting with my nonbinary partner. Since I'm also cis, I am not the apt person to write about the oppression of transgender and nonbinary people: Gwyndolin's correct pronouns are respectfully used by all the characters (including Aldrich); their past is relatively happier and safer than many interpretations, with Gwyn being confused at first, but as affectionate and kind to them as he is with his other children. Same for Anri.  
> \- The story will contain some brief sex scenes, either hinted at or as part of the actual plot. These will involve all kinds of couples and will try to keep a tone that fits the world of Dark Souls. I don't think this would classify any of the shorts as smut, especially since it's not dealt with in detail and I try to use a language that fits the environment, but I felt the need to advise you anyway. I also advise you from the start that it won't contain any rape scene, since I've sworn never to write another after a terrible attempt some years ago. There will however be a hint of sexual assault – non-consensual groping and forceful kissing – briefly mentioned as part of one of the main plotlines. Again, I hope to have treated the matter respectfully. It involves a m/m couple too, but being pansexual myself, I figured I could handle it.  
> – I guess that will be all for now. Thanks for coming here. Enjoy yourself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seath the Scaleless is a traitor, and he lives alone in search for peace and sleep. Maybe there's someone, out there, willing to help him through his predicament. But he hardly believes it.

**Prompt #01:** Sleep

 **Definition:** n. 2, State of silence or of immobility

 **Characters:** Seath the Scaleless, Dark Sun Gwyndolin

 **Setting:** Dark Souls I, post dragon slaughter, Age of Fire

 **Length:** 2.297 words 

 **Trigger Warning:** hinted suicidal thoughts, strong self hate, PTSD

 

 

> “ _No I can't help myself, no I can't help myself, no, no, no_
> 
> _Caught up in the rhythm of it_
> 
> _Maybe I'm looking for something I can't have_ ”

( **Justin Timberlake & Chris Stapleton** _,_[ ** _Say Something_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MPbR6Cbwi4) _)_

 

 

There are the good moments, when you can turn everything off at least for a while, transport yourself for a time you wish lasted forever in a place different from where you are. They’re rearer than Twinkling Titanite, but when you find one you’re happy at least a bit. 

And then there are the nights when your teeth clench until your jaws are in pain, the fingers twitch, your horrid insect wings that made all the other dragon belch in laughter vibrate like the string of a bow, and you stay awake asking yourself why. 

The worst thing is that you already know why. Because you’re _you_ , because you did what you did, because _you’re an abomination and a traitor and it would have been better had you never come out of your egg_. _Accept it_ , you tell yourself, _turn forward_ : seems so easy, in words. 

And you stay there, alone, thinking, _don’t move, don’t move_ , because you know you’re scared, you can’t escape, you can’t even imagine your repugnant white face reflected on some mirror without screaming your blind wrath into the sky, as the shrapnel get stuck in those gross gooey appendages you have instead of proper paws.

Why were you even born, Seath? 

 

A characteristic of Seath – one of the many he loathes – is thinking after having acted. The reason he hates it is the same why he deeply despises all of himself. Except his own body – that body he can’t see but he know oh so well, that slippery neck, those paws as white as death, the tender smooth back, nothing to compare to the scales of _actual_ dragons: that one he hated from the moment he was born, his skin still sticky of the yolk of his egg. 

Seath had been impulsive when he had flown to Lord Gwyn and his allies, when he had accepted castle and dukedom – instead of shutting himself off into some monastery to expiate, _you know you must, Seath, even though a million cycles wouldn’t be enough to atone for what you’ve done_ –. when he had received Gwynevere’s letter saying _yes, this evening_ , and sleepless nights had followed the impulsive days. 

Seath hates them too – he doubts there’s even something in himself he doesn’t hate. 

 

Gwynevere had told him of her family, that night. She had skipped over the part about Lord Gwyn – he knew that old geezer way too well – and the one about her older brother, exiled months beforehand for a probably important reason, yet irrelevant for the paledrake. 

Then she had said Gwyndolin, and Seath had lit up.

-I want to meet your brother.- an impulsive gesture, just for variation. But Seath ponders more and more frequently to just not think of it anymore. If all you do, starting from your coming into the world, results in a disaster that keeps you awake at night, it’s just worth it to stop reflecting and just do as you please.

-He wouldn’t like you.- Gwynevere had said, not even looking at him.

 _Nothing strange there_ , Seath had thought. -Maybe I’d like him.- 

Gwynevere had sighed, the tinkling of her golden bracelets followed by the rustle of the silk comforters. What she had seen in him to give herself to him, Seath will never understand. 

-You wouldn’t like it either.-

-Why?-

Another sigh. -Gwyndolin knows what they want.- 

 

 _And you don’t_ , was hinted: so painfully true Seath hadn’t dared to get angry. Not in front of her: he had knocked down a bookshelf in a fit the moment he had been left alone. 

 _You’re as repugnant on the inside as you are on the outside, Seath the Scaleless_. 

Of that Gwyndolin, he hadn’t heard further – then Gwynevere had become pregnant, and had given birth to that thing, and Seath had spent nights on end just turning on himself, praying for the ceiling of his lair to break upon itself and crumble on him and fix everything effortlessly. 

Then, one day, silence fragments into a muffled sound of steps. Seath lets go of the tome he was holding – may the Channelers get it in his stead – and stretches his neck towards the source of the sound. 

-Who’s there? I advise you: you may never leave.-

-Then I intend not to enter.- A slim, haughty voice, with a firm tone. He doesn’t recognize it. -Com’st thou to me, Scaleless. I intend to talk.- 

Seath chuckles. -Who, or what are you?-

Silence, then another laughter answer his. -I am Gwyndolin, child of Lord Gwyn. I await thee. Come forth, I love not to being left in waiting.- 

Seath stretches his neck. Gwyndolin: coming back into his life like a corpse from the bottom of a lake, with the voice of a youth and the slow, regular steps of a perfect prince. Curiosity overtakes scorn, and Seath obeys their call, head and neck slipping through the door and stopping where the drake’s nostrils feel a pungent smell.

He prepares himself for a shriek and the sound of rushed steps: instead, Gwyndolin’s voice is as gentle as that of a nurse. -The miniatures were right. Thou’rt colossal.- 

-Aren’t you scared of me?-

-I am the child of Lord Gwyn. I fear nothing in the world.-

Seath moans. That’s why they can stare at him: they’re fearless. Evidently even his dragon brethren feared something, as his mere sight elicited the mockery of a convict to the gallows. But Gwyndolin has divine blood, and not even a horror like him is enough to scare them. 

Or is there more? Scientific curiosity itches under the drake’s gross pale skin. If Gwyndolin knows what they want – so has Gwynevere said, and he likes to think she wouldn’t lie at him, daydreams are the only ones he can afford – they haven’t come to him simply searching for the duke palace.

-What is it that you want?-

The sound of a sudden step, the rustling of fabric. -What I want? Art thou treating me like a trader of sort?-

-Nobody comes here unless they want something. I’d be greatly naive if I believed this to be a friendly visit.- 

-And yet.- Gwyndolin’s voice is as placid as that of a maester, -’tis exactly for thee, that I am here.- 

Seath stretches his flabby paws. The right hits something solid, a wooden bump at his back announces the destruction of another piece of furniture. Not the first, nor the last time it happens. But someone looking for him is indeed a new thing, and it doesn’t sound pleasant. 

-Do you not have a business to settle?-

Seath reflects, his head pulsating like underneath hammer strikes. It’s hard to think when you don’t sleep at night.

_But damn: what can I do if I can’t?_

Maybe this is what you’re missing, Seath the Traitor. Not paws, not legs, not peace self love – that was what Gwynevere said, she treated you with kindness and you humiliated her by giving her a crossbreed bastard, you ruin everything you touch and _you know it_ – but sleep. Maybe, all you wish is to be able to curl up where you are, in the dark, without hearing the screams of your kind falling from the sky like meteors – the ones you betrayed, you know it, Seath, because you’ll never forget it, not even if you lived a thousand times for a thousand years more – every accursed time you try to sleep. 

Maybe, Seath, you’re simply out of sleep.

-I have come to encounter Priscilla.- Gwyndolin says.

 _The crossbreed bastard, I was just thinking of her_. -Then you told the truth.- Seath shakes himself up and grins.-You fear nothing in the world.- 

-Thine sarcasm striketh me not, Scaleless. A sweet girl she is, of intelligence and kindness immense. She deserveth to know her real father.-  

And it’s then that Seath wants to squish them – damn their father and all of their family, some things aren’t to be said. He raises his hand above where he knows the young deity is, fingers rigid to gide their shaking.

-Why dost thou refuse thine good deeds?- From the way the youth’s voice comes to him, they have raised their head. Seath is perplexed: not even a rustle of hair. 

-What can you ever know of goodness, child?- Seath retreats his hand and searches for Gwyndolin’s chin with it. It feels as tiny as a grain of millet, even compared to his fingernail. He could actually scratch them – what would you say then, little faint-voiced Gwyndolin? Would you go around pronouncing the name of the only abomination worse than himself? 

-Should I fear what is different? Thou knowest nothing of me.- 

He hears Gwyndolin sitting down cross-legged, the hiss of two ephebic hands fixing up a foliage of silky hair. -I fear thee not, as I fear not Priscilla. She is safe at Ariamis, beloved and cherished as a queen; not much more than a child, but possesses already a refined language, noble posture and great mastery in the art of duel. And yet,- another rustle of fabric announces him that Gwyndolin has crossed their arms as well -she misses something still.-

 _She’s my daughter indeed_ , Seath thinks with bitterness. He’s almost brought to laughter at the idea of Gwyndolin asking him to be a good dad. Abominations enjoy the company of other abominations, after all, and nothing excludes the voice of a child from bringing good sleep. _This is why I want to see my daughter at all: for her to help me sleep. I’m spineless as I am scaleless_. 

-It’s good,- he murmurs unconvinced -for her not to know.-

Gwyndolin shrugs in between the ringing of jewelry.

-It’s good for her not to know.- he repeats louder. His paws slam themselves on the floor behind his back with the sound of a thousand war drums.

Gwyndolin gasps. _There they run_ , the dragon thinks, and slams his paws harder. But the youth speaks and their tone stays cold. 

-Stop this raucous now, Seath. Hush.- 

Seath lifts his head backwards, his long neck turned in a circle that feels like a noose. -Hush? I haven’t known silence for months, child.-

-For thou knowest not where to find it.- 

Something walks on Seath’s snout. The dragon opens his mouth to bite it, then he recognizes it. A hand as tiny as a brick, soft and cold, skin as smooth as the page of a book. 

-Do you know what it means, Gwyndolin?-

-Feeling nothing, thou meanst?-

He mumbles a noise of approval, his repugnant scaleless skin tensing under the silky touch of the youth’s fingers. He wishes he could see them: Channelers talk about them as a jewel in the shape of a person, skin as smooth as marble, lips as soft as the petals of a camellia. They wear a tunic so white they themselves look like pure light, and their sun-shaped headgear glistens like the aster itself.

-Seeing nothing, not being anywhere. Having no body, nor skin or name.- Feeling complete, perfect, leaving behind your own limits and difference. That much Gwyndolin can understand, can’t they?

Some things are born to be admired, others to be hidden away and forgotten – like that strong knight that had attempted to kill him, he remembers him so well, sometimes he sees him burning and crying in between the dragons and when his armor devolves into butterflies of ash he staggers awake roaring into the nothingness - others are born to be looked at, but mocked, a target to absorb all the rot that even non-different ones have inside. 

What Seath wonders is if, and how, one can change the sense of their existence. 

-I know it well.- Gwyndolin whispers.

-You always know everything, it seems.-

He laughs, but Gwyndolin doesn’t join him.

-I know, for I have learned. Art thou not seeking knowledge as well, Seath?-

 _No, I’m seeking sleep_. But he hisses a yes.

-In the end, thou shalt then learn what I have learned: all are missing something. Feel not special for it. Priscilla is there, awaiting thee.- 

Seath stretches his paws. -As if I was naive enough to believe you’ve entered Ariamis. It’s forbidden, even the mice of the Depths know it.-

Gwyndolin strokes him again, and this time Seath doesn’t retreat.

-I have ways of my own. And thou shalt trust me.-

He chuckles. -Why though, fool of a child?-

Gwyndolin’s hand staggers back for a moment, then stretches again on his snout, and it’s cool and soft and _you wish it never left_.

-For we understand each other. We both are not as we should be, we both cannot rest.- 

A faint laugh escapes the throat of the young deity, their hand gliding on the drake’s snout. He likes imagining them as pale as he is, with his same too-thin arms and his same eyes that aren’t there. Maybe Gwyndolin is closer to him than any of his dragon siblings has ever been – because they dared to come close and talk to them and see a reflection of themselves beyond that repugnant misshapen body. 

In their coldness, Gwyndolin is as sweet as how Seath thinks dreams are; they have his same craving of something, but unlike Seath they have already obtained a piece of what they want along the way. Maybe, the paledrake hopes (yes, he hopes, he’s turning into a complete idiot and he’s not even thinking about it) there’s hope for him too. A sun to shine at night just for him, lighting up the dreams he hopes to have.

 _Lack of noise, lack of movement._ The desire burns on Seath’s skin, an eternal and unsatisfied wanting of something that loudly requests to be compensated. Gwyndolin’s hand was cold, like liniment, and their caress so similar to Gwynevere’s it had given him a brief choke. 

Tonight, he knows, the sun will shine during his night. If he manages to sleep, he prays to dream of something else. Not the shrieking and weeping of his kind being exterminated by lightning, their scales burned by the flames of the Witches, their mouth blackened by the Gravelord’s miasma: but Gwyndolin’s face smiling at him, as beautiful and haughty as the sun that gave them their name, guiding him away from the darkness that fills his head.


	2. Irreversible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Knights of Berenike are the bravest, strongest and mightiest of all lands. This is what Blackiron Tarkus tells himself each night, trapped in the basements of the Duke's Archives and feeling more broken everyday by his mysterious captors. A gentle, brave witch is captured alongside him, and all they have is each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Chaske Spencer (Blackiron Tarkus/Manscorpion Tark) and Gong Li (Najkalia/Scorpioness Najka)

**Prompt #02:**  Addiction

 **Definition:**  N. 2. Inability to do without a person (psychological a.) or the incoercible need of a medication or substance: pharmacological a.; part., the condition of the toxic. 

 **Characters:**  Manscorpion Tark/Blackiron Tarkus, Scorpioness Najka 

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, Seath the Scaleless’ experiments

 **Length:** 3.301 words.

 **Trigger Warnings:** major character death, blood, mention of torture, mental insanity, arachnids, lime

 

> " _Maybe I’ve been always destined to end up in this place, yeah_
> 
> _I don't mean to come off selfish, but I want it all_ "

( **The Weeknd ft. Lana del Rey, _[Prisoner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6UlipSXkgE)_** )

 

 

The first thing he sees is the _grey_ : coarse, ferrous, plated in mold stains. He’s laying on something hard and uncomfortable, arms slumped next to his body. _What’s happening? Where am I?_ Everything hurts – his eyes, even. He shuts them again, shuddering in feverish chills.  

 _Remember_ , he tells himself. _You must remember_. There was a painting, yes, tall enough to cover an entire wall. A white-cloaked figure and a blade that…

He reopens his eyes and screams. There, in the lower side of his back – why though, if the knife came from the front – and it burns like a piece of coal jammed in his flesh to the bone. No, deeper, within the bones: all his flesh sizzles and boils under his skin, and the bone marrow, and the muscles, at every breath, stronger yet stronger.

Tarkus’ voice chokes in his throat, as scorching tears trace on his cheeks. -Poison.- he whispers. -No, no. Help me…-

-That isn’t poison. Hold still.- A woman’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Tarkus sobs, feeling his back cracking at every breath. Two hands clench around his and hold them with caring violence. Tarkus clenches his eyes shut, letting the tears flow warm and thick.

-Get it off me.- he moans, to not even he knows who.

-Nothing to get off there. Breathe, now. I’ll try to soothe it.- 

Tarkus gurgles a yes as soft fingers caress his face. He carefully opens his eyes, but sunlights whips his face. He screams again.

-Shh.- the voice orders. -You mustn’t scream. He’s blind, but he can hear us.-

Tarkus’cheeks feel like burning embers, his hands tighten against the clothes he’s wearing. _Where’s my armor?_ The other’s hands meet on his stomach, as light as a dove’s wings, and a new warmth pulsates inside Tarkus’ flesh. A nice warmth, like a tisane. He breathes out, reclining his back.

-A miracle.- he whispers. This time it’s easy to open his eyes, and the blurry surroundingd of the room he’s in focus more at every blink. There’s a door of metallic bars and three grey stone walls. A face framed by straight black hair, furrowed brow, stares at him questioningly. 

-Soothing Sunlight.- the woman smiles faintly. -But don’t agitate yourself. After the blow you suffered, you need to hold still.-

Tarkus nods. _What blow_ , he wants to scream, but even opening his mouth is a shower of dagger stabs to the back. The painting room was huge and he was walking on the ceiling pillars, a step every five seconds. He had almost sworn at the Gods whe he had seen them. _The armors of Berenike Knights aren’t made for acrobatics_. Then there were the white cloaked people, c _lose your eyes Tarkus, you see them, they were everywhere, like pigeons hanging from the rafters._ He had killed one with a stomach blow, another with a sword stab between the knees. Then he had turned around to check his footing, just a damn second, and he had turned back to the front right on time to see the blade of the knife piercing through the cuirasse – _how did it do that, in the name of Gwyn, how did it ever do that?_ – and stagger one step backwards. 

He had seen the joists of the ceiling from under, moving further and further away. Then a blow as hard as a thousand hammers, and then nothing. 

He reopens his eyes, huffing. The woman’s heart-shaped face shows a contrary expression.

-Do you have a name?-

Tarkus’s teeth chatter. He doesn’t feel like talking, he doesn’t even know if there’s still a voice of sorts in his chest. He murmurs a shaky “you?”, his tounge quivering in between the incisors.

The woman shrugs, a hand running through her opaque hair.

-My name is Najkalia.-

 

Najkalia is here: Najkalia is a handmaiden to Princess Gwynevere, who has studied magical arts in Vinheim and defeated Princess Dusk herself at a duel during a tournament. Najkalia knows miracles and welded a mace she called Stinger. She has black hair, always so dirty that grease sticks to her falanges whenever she combs them with those ever thinner fingers. When she’s sad she tightens her lips to the point of making them vanish in the middle of her face. She does it ever more often, now, and with those eyes, always red, her face looks like the mask of a theatre performer.

Yet Najkalia doesn’t laugh – neither does Tarkus, and he thinks none of them will hear the other’s laughter for long. There have been nights, the first ones, in which he tried to comfort himself by thinking of Berenike. _I would train behind the chapel, in between the laurel bushes. Whenever I’d hear the bell ring, I’d put my sword away and watch the procession pass by – and the worshippers would salute me and wish me good luck, for the Berenike Knights are the strongest among all kingdoms and so I would have been. I’m as strong as iron itself, and I shall face whatever happens to me as it befits me_. 

And like a worthy Berenike Knight he prepares to die, clenched teeth and fists tightened to the point of whitening as Channelers – so they’re called, Najkalia says, – lead them through the corridors, tied up and hooded.

Then the hood is ripped off his head, and he sees the paledrake, milky skin glistening at the light of the torches like a coat of tears, and dishonors all the order with a scream that makes Najkalia jump.

 _She doesn’t scream_ , he thinks as they tie him up to the chair. She’s brave, deserving of a worthy death. 

But none of them dies, not that day, nor the following. Needles pierce through their skins, poisons and broths are forced down their throats. Tarkus wails and cries and asks _why_ , Najkalia kicks and hisses that they shall pay, but death doesn’t come, and every day they look into each other’s eyes with a sigh. 

 

The first time they do it, she proposes it. They lay at opposite sides of their cell, each crying on their own. Tarkus hates crying, for he’s not used to it, and one doesn’t join the Berenike Knights to expand their knowledge, even less in a prison such as that one. Berenike Knights are born to strain: they train to develop shoulders as wide as shields and arms as robust as logs, wear armors and swing greatswords that another knight would barely be able to lift. But even black iron bends under the embrace of fire, and Tarkus muffles his sobs in his rough dry hands, quivering like a child. 

He then hears the iron of the bars shaking. He turns around, and he sees Najkalia clinging to it to get up. Her legs tremble at every step, a string of blood drips from between her legs and stains the rag that covers her. A tear dangles from her chin. She kneels next to him and strokes his cheeks. 

-If it doesn’t hurt, would you like to? I care not about pregnancies.- 

Tarkus nods. A hint of a smile draws on Najkalia’s lips, a crescent moon watching over him in that accursed place; she takes off her tunic and tosses it behind her shoulders. Her breasts are covered in bruises, Tarkus’ hands can barely cover them. When he’s also free of his rags, Najkalia sits on his legs and sobs in his shoulder.

-We have nothing else.- she whispers. Tarkus holds her to his chest – that’s how a Berenike Knight  worthy of their name is to behave with a comrade in distress – and sobs louder. 

They both sob, kissing each other on the lips and the necks, pushing and panting one against the other. Najkalia hugs him and scratches his back with broke, blackened nails. She feels warmer and softer at every thrust, as tears fall on her face and wet his shoulders. And Tarkus sobs ever louder, as he knows one of them will be alone one day, in that cellar under the Duke’s Archives, and he’s not sure he wants to be the one anymore. 

Then Najkalia comes in between his arms, a moan as gentle as a rustle of sand, and all the cell vanishes, in a single and fundamental moment of bliss. 

 

The second time, he’s the one coming forward. Najkalia lies on her back in her bunk, staring at the ceiling, hair drawing arabesques around her face. Dry hair, clenched lips. 

-Did it feel good, last night?-

Najkalia mumbles a yes, arms tightened around her chest. Tarkus sits at her side and places his palm on her shoulder, stroking it with all the grace a Berenike Knight has ever been capable of. 

-Would you want to try again?-

And so they go on, any evening in which they feel like doing it. Sometimes Najkalia says no, staring at the floor with ever redder and emptier eyes, and Tarkus nods and sits by her side without saying anything. Sometimes it’s him that turns back, – when his arms hurt too much, when his head is spinning, when his back hurts so much sometimes he ’s afraid to start choking. But Najkalia stays, and holds his hand staring at him in silence – and with gloomy eyes he can’t even send her away, as he can’t even conceive a reality in which she doesn’t exist. He searches for her whenever they put him back into the cell, even when he’s so hurt he prays any God that can hear him to make him faint, and when he can’t see her he feels tears pushing from under his tired eyes, they try to come out, they come out. 

Najkalia is here and Tarkus waits for her, for even a fully trained Berenike Knight as hard as black iron has the right to beautiful things and she is, she's so beautiful she looks as if she had been put there by mistake, and he feels like a monster whenever he thinks of how awful it would be if she suddenly never came back. She would have probably ended up in a merrier place than that. But Najkalia is here and he wants her. He reassures himself during thrusts by thinking that she wants him just as intensely, and if he can give back to her a minimal part of what she gives him every day he must, as he – and he’ll always repeat it, because one mustn’t forget who they are – is a Berenike Knight and his honor equals his strength.

One day, as they strap him to the chair alongside Najkalia, he sees some scorpions twitching inside a glass jar, small paws tapping against the walls of their diminutive prison at the beating of his heart. 

 

When Tark sees Najka he doesn’t know who she is, but he already knows he loves her. She has iron black hair – _what am I even saying, iron is grey, whoever even heard of black iron?_ – and aquamarine skin. And she gives him a faint smile, low eyes, cheeks reddening, and lends him her hand with the politeness of a dame.

-What’s your name? You’re like me. I’ve never seen you.- 

She blinks, and she’s so pretty as she does it you want to look at her eternally until your pupils burn. -Tark. My name is Tark. Just Tark.- It doesn’t feel right as a name, but it’s all that he remembers. Whenever he pronounces it he hesitates staring at his pincers, just enough time to pronounce five more syllables that aren’t there. _But what are they?_ , he asks himself everytime without being able to answer. Najka doesn’t know it, so he decides not to think about it. It’s about her, that he’s concerned. He likes her and wants her to like him. And when some months later Najka lends him a tiny smooth hand and asks him how he’s feeling about marriage, Tark hugs her so abruptly he smashes one of her paws with his pincer. 

The Paledrake is odd and not very talkative, but he’s nice to them, he lets them roam free around the Duke’s palace alongside their kind, and he tells the Channelers not to bother them _or else_. The Paledrake has no eyes to shed tears from, but he’s always sad even when he’s laughing. At night he screams and shrieks with cries that sound like the wails of a baby. Tark and Najka embrace each other and exchange stares full of pity. _It must be ugly,_ Tark thinks, _when you’re in the need for something and don’t even know what it is._   He doesn’t get it, however: he needs nothing, he has Najka and she’s all he could ask for. 

When the Paledrake dies they hold a vigil to his unmoving body, side by side, and Tark’s stomach is as heavy as all the palace’s stones. He holds Najka tight, thanking he doesn’t even know who for getting them close to each other. 

 

Najka is there: Najka is a scorpion-creature just like him, who knows magical arts for some reason she can’t remember and defeats on her own ten guards rushing in after a terrified peasant had seen them walking around. Najka knows miracles too and welds a mace she has called Stinger. She has black hair, and the stands cover the naked breasts Tark wants to touch for eternity, but he waits for her to say yes because he loves her, and when you love someone you have to make them feel good. They live in hiding in a wood, next to a town filled with spiders. Sometimes one _like them_ passes along their road and talks to them in the language of the scorpions, that they understand, but they don’t feel as their own – they salute them with the proper etiquette, but they waste no time for conversation. They’re not Najka, so he’s not interested. Najka is there, Tark thinks, and I’ll always be there as long as she is. When they have to be separated, to go hunting or explore places they don’t know in search of a place where two like them can stay on their own, Tark hates every second of it. Najka is there and she’ll always be there. 

Najka is there for all the time, and Tark knows her as well as himself. When she’s sad she tightens her lips to the point of making them vanish in the middle of her face. One day she’s so sad that gesture deforms all her face, and Tark almost jumps backwards, because it looks like the face of a corpse. 

-My love..- He tries to embrace her, but Najka pushes him backwards and jams her fingernails into his shoulder. -Don’t touch me, no. I can’t take it. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t know what I am.- 

-You’re Najka.- Tark answers. -You’re Najka and you’re beautiful. I love you. Let me help you.- 

He sees a globe of blue taking shape behind his beloved’s shoulder and he thinks _no, it can’t be_. Light blinds him, his face and chest burn as if dripping lava was being poured on him. 

-Let me go!- Najka roars. -Let go or I’ll kill you.- Drool drips off her mouth, her eyes look like two balls of red and white fire. -Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me, I don’t want anything. None of this.-

Then Tark sees the blade of Stinger next to his face, and his breath chokes. -Najka.- he whispers. -My beloved, please.- 

He hates the way his voice breaks as he’s speaking. His forearms parry Stinger’s blow, his teeth clench in pain. -Najka, stop it. My love.- 

-Go away! I’ll kill you, I swear I will.- 

Blinded by tears, Tark vanishes into the ground. He can hear Najka’s mace hitting his stinger, and it hurts more than it should. 

 

A warrior can be scared, and repeating to himself that Najka _has gone insane_ and is going to suffer eternally if someone doesn’t put an end to it makes Tark’s whole body quiver like a tower shook by the wind. He knows he’ll kill her, that it’ll be as painful and necessary as a rotten tooth being ripped from the mouth. And he knows when he’ll kill her: tomorrow – an eternal and misty _tomorrow_. _Tomorrow_ I’ll kill her, he thinks as he lays into the terrain to sleep. He muffles a sob in his arms and wails through clenched teeth for the back pain. _That’s weird_ , he thinks, _the sword went into the shoulder, but the pain is low. Tomorrow I’ll kill her and then I’ll try to figure what this is_. 

The next day he repeats it, and the following as well: his litany to put himself to sleep. _Tomorrow_ I’ll kill her, _tomorrow_ I’ll kill her, _tomorrow_ I’ll kill her. It’s the best thing for them both, she’s suffering too much now and those who truly love someone don’t leave them to suffer alone. Until they truly love them, and so Tark brings his hands to his face and sobs into them, faintly, certain that no one can hear him, and even if someone did they certainly wouldn’t stop for him.

 _Tomorrow, tomorrow,_ for every new day with Najka alive – even if she’s not next to him, even if she hates him, even if she’s not completely insane – is still a better day then what it’d be without her. _Tomorrow, tomorrow_. He even wants to see her cry, because having a crying Najka next to himself is still having Najka next to himself, and she deserves to be consoled. He needs her like an armor, he needs to think her, imagine her, guard her inside the shards of his imagination where those short arachnid paws look like feathered wings. _Tomorrow I’ll kill her, tomorrow I’ll kill her. How much am I willing to sacrifice for her? More or less than what she has done for me?_

What she did and when he doesn’t remember, but he knows it happened, and he craves that memory like a droplet of water in the middle of the desert. _Tomorrow I’ll think about it. Tomorrow I’ll kill her_.  

 

When tomorrow finally arrives, Tark isn’t ready. Even closing his eyes he sees it there, in front of him, as strong as the wail of a torture victim, as bright as a pyre. The person he told to kill her has kept their promise – they had talked to him, how did they ever understand him, how? – and had jumped on Najka’s scorpion back and had tightened their legs around her side like one would do to a horse, and had pulled out a knife, and a spark of silver had drawn in the air behind Najka’s back; and she had screamed, but not the way she did when they always fought. It was the cry of someone who knows it’ll be the last one.

 _It was fast_ , Tark thinks. _Quick, merciful, fair_. Najka is free, she isn’t suffering anymore, she isn’t crying anymore. But why can’t he ever get away from her? 

Even her face isn’t there anymore. After a single day her aquamarine skin had started to wrinkle, and the hair had stopped shining and looked dirty and only and less out of place on her than he’d have expected. He dug a pit with his hands and his stinger, big enough for Najka to sleep comfortably and turn around if she feels like it. The ground with which he had covered her had mixed itself up with his tears.

He stares at the rectangle of crumpled up ground, shaking, clenching his teeth, repeating himself his favorite little word: _tomorrow_. 

Najka is there: she’ll always be there, in his best memories, in the wet recesses left on his cheeks by tears, in his fingernails, dirty of the ground that covers her. Najka is there and maybe Tark can get over that too. She’s there, if she’s there nothing else is needed. As long as she keeps being there. 

 _Tomorrow I’ll leave_ , he thinks. _Tomorrow I’ll leave, I’ll leave her to rest in peace as she deserves._ But _tomorrow_ always comes the next day, and Tark stays awaiting, staring at the lump of dirt where Najka sleeps. When he had decided to kill her he had forgotten to think of how much it would have hurt. 

But a Berenike Knight, it is known, isn’t made to think. _What’s a Berenike?_ , Tark asks himself. _Maybe Najka knew it. If it’s a new place we could have tried to go there; maybe it’s just a land made for us strange creatures, where the mad loneliness of our creator wouldn’t have tarnished her._

He sighs, staring at his beloved grave and muttering those so funny and unknown syllables. They tell him something, but he has nothing more in mind about it. He’ll wait for it to come into his mind. There’s time to do it. _Tomorrow_ , he’ll leave.


	3. The Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Filianore, daughter of Lord Gwyn, is about to fulfill her destiny and give herself to seemingly eternal slumber, for the sake of man. Although her loyal handmaiden Shira is there with her all the way through, she feels as if she has unfinished business left back at Lordran. But before the walls of the Ringed City can take her in, a familiar face comes back for a final farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Laura Prepon (Princess Filianore), Chris Hemsworth (Finias, the Nameless King) and Taylor Schilling (Shira).

**Prompt #03:**  Wandering

 **Definition:**  N.1,The frequent moving from a place to another without an itinerary or pre-established programs: in their foreign w. they have met an infinity of people; fig. intellectual restlessness or fantastical evasion 

 **Characters:**  Princess Filianore, Nameless King 

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, kingdom of Lord Gwyn

 **Length:** 3.627 words.

 

" _What do you expect from me?  
What am I not giving you? _

 _What could I do for you to make me OK in your eyes?_ "  
( **P!nk,**[ ** _My Vietnam_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWUdH_iQ4h4))

 

 

Gwyndolin cries thick and copious tears as she holds onto Filianore’s chest. At ten years of age, she looks half, and the mucus dripping from her nose doesn’t blend well with the gold necklaces adorning her neck and the fine silks of her white tunic.

-I will tell Father not to send thee.- the child grumbles.-I will stamp my feet. I will hold my breath.-

-Thou shan’t do any of such things.- Filianore whispers. -Thou shalt instead be proper and strong. Gwynevere will always be at thine side. And as I dream of thee, it will be as if I never departed.- 

-Promise us, thou will dream of us.- Gwyndolin sobs. -Thou must.-

-Each and every night, child dear.- 

Gwynevere has reddened eyes and a thin nose. Clumps of hair escape from her do, and her hands quiver as she moves them away.

-Our brother first, and now thee as well. I cannot bear it, sister dear.- Gwynevere wipes her eyes with the back of her right hand and grabs Filianore’s wrists pushing her nails into the silk. -It would be fairer if I was to go. I am the eldest.- 

-’Tis because thou art the eldest that I must go, and thou knowst it.- _I’m not the heir to the throne. I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what I like. Than why not just do nothing?_ If what she’s forced to do has a purpose, it could happen that the name Filianore in Gwyn’s family tree isn’t just a waste of ink. At that thought, maybe, her tears would have been sweeter. -Takest care of Gwyndolin. A good girl she is, and she shall be a great goddess.-

The little girl holds onto her sister’s skirt, sobbing into it. -I swear it.- Gwynevere whispers, face fierce despite her damp eyes. 

-Farewell, sisters dear. Be strong. In the end, siblings have to leave. ‘Tis just the way it works.- 

-Is it true, what thou hast told Gwyndolin?- Gwynevere holds her little sister’s hand. -Will thou see us in thy dreams? 

-As true as mine name is Filianore.- 

Shira awaits at the entrance, spear already set on her back. -Come forth, Princess Filianore. The travel shan’t be long, but we must not be late.- 

Gwyn and Fina’s faces are cold, but their eyes glisten of choked tears as they say their farewell to their daughter. _And then forward, forward, not looking back nor knowing what I will find_. Filianore walks a few steps ahead of the handmaiden and torments her ringed fingers. 

-Thou’rt very brave.- Shira whispers. -Few would dare to do what thou’rt to do.- 

-’Tis a merit. I am to have time to think of it.- Filianore takes off her index ring and spins it between her fingers. -Someone had to. At the end of the day, ’tis just like any other purpose.- 

The faces of the people she hadn’t said goodbye too crown in front of her eyes. Stubborn Lady Ciaran of platinum hair, Sir Artorias, who saluted her with “sweet lady mine”, Sir Ornstein, who had gifted her the silver crown she’d always wear, vivacious Sir Gough and even grotesque Smough. The sweet skull-faced Gravelord and the gentle Witch of Izalith with her daughters. Queelag and Queelan, with whom she had feasted many times; Ivana, who had defeated Ornstein in person during a spear tournament; Grana, the soft-handed pyromancer of garnet hair; and Isalia and Quelana and Galana, and Quelay, the cursed boy with skin sore of lava. She herself had given away one of her bracelets, to helps his sisters in forging that special ring. 

_And my brother. My brother Finias, the exiled. Father would be well disappointed at knowing I’m thinking of him, but after all how dares he request anymore of me?_

-Princess!- Shira gasps and lifts the point of her cross-shaped spear to the skies. -Beware, a dragon!- 

A shadow covers the sun, wings that look as big as whole plains stretching above them. Filianore staggers, stepping on the tip of her tunic. The creature’s wings flap slowly and Filianore is surprised at their silence. The creature loops and dives. _It’s aiming at us_ , Filianore thinks, but she doesn’t run even as Shira tugs at her sleeve. She sees it flying lower and lower, in yet tighter circles – a dragon of indigo feathers, with the beak of a bird of prey, a neck as thick as a column, a slender and stringlike body – and shudders. 

-Shira, there is a rider. Let us not run. I want to talk.- 

-Princess, ’tis dangerous.-

 _So what? Can’t I enjoy my last dangerous act_? The creature lands with a thud, raising a cloud of dried dirt as tall as Filianore herself. The princess brings her hands to her ears, expecting a loud cry, but the dragon is silent. The man on his shoulder places a hand on his scales. The dragon reclines its neck and holds still on the ground. 

Filianore blinks. The man has arms as thick as those of a statue and long white hair straight up his head like the tips of a flame; his face is covered by a brown scarf, and he holds a spear as thick as the trunk of a cherry tree inside his fist.

-Drop!- Shira growls. The man opens his hand and lets his weapon fall to the ground with a metallic sound. He lowers his scarf from his face and Filianore emits a surprised gasp.

-Brother. How did you make it here?-

-What’s going on, Filianore?- Finias leaps off the dragon’s back and lands on his feet on the ground.  Shira leans on the front, weapon embraced. -Stay away from the Princess. I fear not to kill you.- 

-Drop the spear, Shira.- Filianore orders. -’Tis my brother. And you too, brother dear. Hurt her not.- 

-She shouldn’t have seen me. If Father comes to know…- Finias hisses. 

-She won’t tell anyone. Loyal, she is.- Shira lowers the tip of the spear without letting it go. -Drop it, Shira. I order you. Nothing will happen to us.-

The brash _clank_ of Shira’s spear against the ground sounds in the silence. Finias holds one hand into  the other: they’re so callous they look covered by iron gauntlets. 

-Our father went too far on this, Filianore. He can’t force you to a fate like this.- Finias tightens his fists and grits his teeth. -You haven’t done anything. It’s not fair.-

-Few things are. One learns quickly, being a princess and not a wanderer.- 

Finias holds her hand and lends her his arm. Shira loudly grinds her teeth. 

-I won’t accept it, sister dear. Get on. Come with me. I’ll carry you to safety. They thought I wouldn’t have come to know, but rumors spread.- 

-Let go!- Filianore rips her arm out of her brother’s grasp. -What do you think you’re doing? Keep me hidden like a war trophy?-

-I don’t know.- Finias sighs. -We’ll run away. Your guard can come with. We’ll protect you. We’ll see the world.- 

Filianore feels her cheeks redden. A person of royal blood shouldn’t react in such an emotional way, but trepidation makes her quiver. See the world and its wonders. Fight and travel and ride on the back of a dragon – a real dragon, rarer than diamonds. _Father and Mother would never find out. Shira will be with me, maybe we’ll even see Gwynevere and Gwyndolin again_. 

She takes one step forward, but she doesn’t dare to move beyond. She tightens her fists around her tunic. It’ll be hard, but if there’s one thing Filianore hates is giving up. She has sworn, she has chosen. _I’m a princess, not a wanderer, and such I’ll remain_. -No, brother. I insist I don’t want to.- 

Finias’ eyes beam of fire. -The choice is yours. At least I can say my farewells.- The youth’s voice breaks. The dragon emits a seemingly painful wail. -At least let me take you there. King of Storms is docile, and the Pygmies have no decree against me. 

Filianore tenses at the word “decree”. -Father and Mother won’t find out?- 

-I swear it, sister mine. This will be the last time I ride through these skies.- Finias leans his hand on King of Storm’s side. -I won’t come back until your torment will be over.-

-You’re so melodramatic.-

Filianore turns to the handmaiden. -Do you want to ride on a dragon’s back, Shira?-

The warrior nods with clenched lips and picks up her spear. She climbs the dragon’s side like a tree and sits on the top, arms crossed. Filianore takes her hand and places her feet on the scales. They emit a pleasant warmth, like faded coal. She sits next to Shira, legs folded on her chest. _My dress will get all stained_. But the feathers are soft, and their warmth gives a cozy feeling. 

Finias picks up his spear from the ground. He leaps to the beast’s neck and tightens his legs around its neck. King of Storms rises a meter, then two, wings flapping like capes being shook by a tempest, clouds of beige sand brush the dry terrain. Shira wails and grabs hold of the beast’s feathers. Filianore protects her eyes from the sand with her hands. The road is now a uniform line of colorless brown and blurred outlines, and looks as thin as a finger. Filianore sharply lifts her gaze to the dragon’s neck.

-Are you alright?- Finias asks. Shira grunts a yes. Filianore lifts her thumb.

-Then onward we go.- The vivacity in the prince’s voice sounds forced. -To the Ringed City.- 

Filianore grabs Shira’s hand and removes her hair from her face. -Where have you found this dragon?- she screams. 

-King of Storms?- Finias strokes the beast’s back. -There’s a place, far away, where dragons still thrive. Real dragons, not bloated salamanders like Seath. They have taken me in as one of their own. King of Storms is my favorite. I can’t tell you anymore.- 

-Our sisters have missed you greatly. They have never forgotten you.-

Finias huffs. -They should have. Now my destiny doesn’t coincide anymore with theirs.- 

 _Neither does mine_ , Filianore thinks. She suddenly feels tears pushing against her eyelids, a strong bony hands grabbing her throat. When the first sob makes itself heard she prays for Shira not to have noticed. The handmaiden turns her head to her just in time to see the first tear fall. 

-It’s the wind.- she whispers. Shira takes her hand, stroking her palm with her coarse fingers. _It’d be much, much simpler if I had her by my side in my eternal sleep._ She closes her eyes to let tears flow, and when she reopens them Finias has turned around, and stares at her from above the scarf. 

-You’re scared, Filianore.- 

 _How could I not be?_ -It’ll pass.- She gulps, holding yet tighter to Shira. 

-It’s not fair for you to be remembered like this. We still have time to run away.- 

Filianore shakes her head. -We can’t, that’s all. It’s not fair. Towards the Pygmies, towards our parents and our sisters. Knowing of me living as a wanderer, unfairly.- 

-As if what they’re putting you through was any fairer.- Finias roars. -I may be a wanderer, as you say, but at least I can move around.-

Filianore opens her mouth to answer him, but only sobs escape her lips. -I’m sorry.- she babbles. Shira holds her hand tighter, damp eyes. -I meant not to offend you.-

-You haven’t.- Finias sweetly says. He slides down the dragon’s back with the grace of a circus performer and lends her his hand. Filianore raises her free one. -I wish I could do more.-

-It’s alright. Truly. It wasn’t necessary to…-

Finias holds her hand, caresses it with his callous fingers – next to hers, so smooth, they look as if they belong to another species. Filianore wipes her eyes.

-You haven’t lost me, like our sisters didn’t. I’ll search for you. I’ll dream you. Wherever you will be.-

-Wherever I will be.- Even from under the scarf, Filianore can see him giggle. -You know what it’s like with we wanderers. You never know where we are.-

But his eyes turn sweeter. -Maybe you’re right, though. When you are what I am, wandering is the most dignified solution. I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s better than remembering where I came from.-

-It does take courage.- Shira admits, holding Filianore’s hand tighter. The princess moves one hair away from her mouth. -What matters is your wellbeing, brother. You will be able to see me whenever you want to.-

Finias nods. -You’re a princess, not a wanderer. And yet, I’d give the world to have you with me.- He raises his head over King of Storm’s neck and stretches his finger in front of himself. -The Ringed City is down there. You still have time to run away.-

Filianore tightens her teeth, holds onto her dress and Shira’s hand: she can’t afford to cry, not now. -No, Finias. I beg of you. Land.- 

The brown walls of the Ringed City look like open jaws that await Filianore to devour her. King of Storms spirals down, the wind whips Filianore’s face and rips the remaining tears off her eyes. Shira grunts. The dragon bumps onto the ground, and Finias leaps off its neck tossing his spear to his feet. Shira jumps off right afterwards, waving herself with her hands.

Filianore slides down the feathered wing. Her feet caress the sand, as coarse as raw fabric. She looks at her brother and feels a new sob rising up her throat. 

-Please stay just a bit more, brother. Please. I want to embrace you one last time.- 

Finias steps closer, in silence, and holds her to his chest. He wears a leather cuirasse, plastered in round iron plaques, and Filianore prays whoever could hear her for some of that strength to seep into her flesh and make her capable to suffer through what awaits her. His thick, rough hands caress her back – they’re as warm as the scales of his dragon, and seem just as solid. _It’ll be a marvelous dream_. 

-I wish you every luck, sister. I won’t forget you.- 

-Neither will I. And I swear to visit you in my dreams alongside Gwynevere and Gwyndolin.-

The warrior climbs back atop the back of his dragon. His ash white hair wave like the fronds of a tree, his big callous hands lean onto the fiend’s warm scales like next to a restoring bonfire. _I saw him one last time without knowing if it’ll be the last_.  

-Finias!-

He winces, raising his eyes above the scarf. -Sister?-

-Thanks for coming back.- 

Finias stays silence. He stretches his hand towards her and brings it back to himself, clenched into a fist. He shuts his eyes and holds onto the dragon, shrinking into his scarf. 

Filianore doesn’t look at King of Storms rising from the ground and vanishing beyond the clouds. Her hands tremble, her eyes are clouded and she knows it’s not the sand’s fault. 

-Shira.- she whispers. The warriors drops her spear and rushes to her with open arms. -Weep not, Princess. I am here. I always shall be.-

Filianore holds her tight, faintly breathing. She must be brave and do what she must – brave as a princess and not as a wanderer, _suffer through it and not running away_ – it doesn’t matter how much it will hurts. 

She holds the handmaiden’s hand tight as they walk along the sandy road. _Fly, brother mine. Run away, you who can_. She sniffs and caresses her gown. She raises her eyes to the skies, begging for someone – Finias, of course, but Gwyndolin or Gwynevere or anyone else as well – to remember her.

 _If being a wanderer means not knowing where you’re going, then me and my brother have more in common than what Father would want us to_. A little payback to silence the grudge burning somewhere within herself. Soon, there won’t even be any room for that. She’ll be on her own with the King’s Decree, the Pygmies – and Argo and Halflight and her dear Shira – and her dreams, the only light to warm her for a maybe infinite fime. 

She looks Shira in the eyes, eyes that look like slices of sky mounted into the purest glass, eyes she wants to dream of, takes a deep breath and knocks at the door of the Pygmy King’s palace. 

 

When Filianore wakes up, she knows she’s hollow. Her white tunic is spotted with holes, her skin has the reddish tint of cedar wood and is as wrinkly as tree bark. She shakes the shattered eggshell off herself and slides down the klin like a little girl.

She takes one step, staring right at her front. _Many Ages have passed, the Gods have been forgotten. Gwyndolin and Gwynevere are dead – one devoured alive by a cannibalistic abomination, the other having stabbed herself not to suffer a similar fate. Great Londo is ruled by my young niece. Her father, an old dragon consumed by madness, and two of my sister’s bastard daughters are assisting her._ Five, six, seven steps _. No, now it’s Anor Londo. Anor after Filianore. A nice gift from Father, albeit a bit late._ Eight, nine, ten steps _. I wonder if that girl could want to get to know her aunt. She only confides to her relatives, to the Fire Keeper and to a knightess that’s loyal to her. I happily leave her the throne, but I still want to see her. I hope to please her, even if I’m not Gwyndolin._ The stairs are smooth under her feet, and even the grains of sand scratching her skin are a beneficial caress. Filianore tosses her hair behind her shoulders and smiles as she stretches. 

 _I did my duty. Now I have a world to see and a home to look for. And I already know where to start_. 

 

A figure stands firm in the middle of the empty room. She holds a spear in her hand, a wizened and grey corpse impaled onto its tip, but Filianore wants to clap her hands the moment she sees her. -Shira! Shira dearest!-

-Princess!- The knightess’ face turns chalk pale. She falls to her knees, hands leant forward and the Pygmy impaled to her spear wailing like a crow. -Princess Filianore, thou’rt awake? Whatever has occurred? Art thou alright?-

-Never felt better.- Filianore holds the handmaiden’s hand. -It’s alright, Shira. I’m free, we’re free. I’ve already spoken to Judicator Argo. Let’s run away, come with me. Fight for me until I myself have learned how.-

-But the Pygmy…-Shira trembles, and it feels completely wrong for Filianore. She puts her hands to her hips and pouts her lips. She can finally act like a princess, and it’s so great it makes her want to dance. -We’ll bring the accursed Pygmy with ourselves. It won’t be the weirdest thing Amor Londo has ever seen. Let’s go, Shira. Let’s find our own home.- 

Shira blinks, trembling hands. -A home; dost thou mean…?-

-Remember when we flew on dragon’s back, Shira mine?- Filianore holds her hands onto Shira’s, they’re as hard as steel, the hands of a woman of arms, _how I wish my own were like this_. -When I promised my brother I’d have seen in my dreams? We can go wherever I want, you see?-

Shira’s lips quiver, her fingers vibrate clenched onto one another. She has a tonic body, muscular arms, hair of a beautiful grain blonde. Filianore doesn’t want to rush it, _I haven’t seen a woman for so long, it’s probably self-suggestion_. And yet, once Shira undoes her ponytail and kneels at her feet brushing the sand with the strands, she looks even more beautiful than the Sun itself. 

-Travel with me, Shira. There’s a whole world beyond the Ringed City waiting to be seen.-

Shira’s eyes shine of tears. Filianore holds onto the handmaiden’s arm. -Go call everyone. Quick, quick. Let this city eat itself up.- 

Shira runs as of her own life depended on it, the Mad Pygmy crying and wailing as she shakes her spear in the rush of the race. Filianore sits cross-legged, erect back. It’s nice to know new relatives, but there’s an old one she can’t wait to see again. _He’s no longer the lone wanderer of the family, now._ A sudden warmth fills her chest, like a spoonful of soup. Filianore squeaks of trepidation. 

 _Are you awake, sister dear?_ His voice went scratchier, but she recognizes his lit up tone. 

Filianore conjoins her hands. _Yes, beloved Finias. Anor Londo awaits us._

A sigh. _Gwyndolin and Gwynevere…_  

Filianore stands up, admiring the white lit stained glass. 

_I know, brother mine. We’ll have time to mourn them at the proper time. The joy of embracing you again overtakes the grief for our lost family. I can’t wait to get to know our nieces._

_The Mother of a covenant and two Crossbreed dragons. Three, counting that bony blue abomination Gwynevere has married. A delight, for me. Where have I been all this time?  
You were searching for a home, dear brother. That’s all. So was I._

_A failed research indeed. Not even now that Father and Mother are no longer there I dared going back to Londo. It wouldn’t feel fair, you see?_

_Nobody says we have to stay. We can just bring our salutations to our niece and abdicate in her favour. Since none of us wants to rule, all three of us will be content._

_And then?_ Finias’ voice trembles. _Where will we go afterwards?_

Filianore twirls on the sand and watches the tips of her gown lift in the rush. 

 _I don’t know._ And she smiles.  


	4. Chains Of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even the biggest bond between lovers can save them from what fate has decided for them. Gwynevere, Queen of Lothric, cherishes and adores her husband Oceiros. But something is eating up at the king's mind, and not even the great love they feels for one another is enough for him to open up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring MyAnna Buring (Gwynevere, Queen of Lothric), Jeremy Irons (Oceiros, the Consumed King) and Ciara Renee (Kendra, Dancer of the Boreal Valley).

**Prompt #04:**  Captivity

 **Definition:**  N.1, State of forced segregation in a secluded place, with deprivation of freedom of movement; reclusion. Condition of isolation from the social life of the community. 

 **Characters:**  Gwynevere, Queen of Lothric, Oceiros, the Consumed King 

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls III, childhood of the Twin Princes/conquest of Anor Londo

 **Length:** 3.982 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** blood, brief instance of smut, graphic depiction of suicide, reference to past sexual assault

**Semi-Sequel to _[Uti Et Frui](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502237#main)_ , it’s advised to read it beforehand to understand some of the events depicted in here. **

 

> " _Just when I felt like giving up on us_
> 
> _You turned around and gave me one last touch_
> 
> _That made everything feel better_
> 
> _And even then my eyes got wetter_ "

( **Rihanna** , [**_California King Bed_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhBorPm6JjQ) _)_

 

 

One of the few things Gwynevere would have always, always thanked her mother and father was their rebuke of arranged marriages. Filianore’s loss had been doubly desperate for Gwyn, a kick onto his honor as well as a dagger stab for his paternal love, and Gwynevere had always tried to stay on his side in the days that followed the loss of her beloved sister. The evening of the departure, Gwyndolin – little girl Gwyndolin, who still feared the world – had ran off to her room, clear eyes filled with tears. 

-You’re not leaving as well, are you?- she had whispered, face buried onto her chest. 

-Of course not.- Gwynevere had smiled. -Father won’t ever do what he has done with Filianore. The person I’ll marry, I and only I will choose it.- 

And it was exactly that that hadn’t worked with Flann. And it had been then that Gwynevere had promised herself to never do anything, _anything_ , just to follow the desires of a dead person. 

She had kept it in mind well, as the handmaidens were braiding her hair for the wedding with the King of Lothric. He had _nothing_ of Flann’s fire. And yet, when he had held her hands on the altar and had whispered to her “I wish to take you as my bride in the name of Lothric” – the formula included a “and the Gods”, but a king could afford to be extravagant – Gwynevere had felt an immense,  beneficial warmth like that of a thousand braziers. 

Lothric and Lorian had come that exact evening. She had had plenty of men and women, but few had managed to give her the frenetic, incandescent joy she had felt within Oceiros’ hands. She had felt free, free enough to scream. And when, concluded those tremendous eight hours, she had embraced her second born into her arms, she had believed her freedom would have never ended. 

 

 _It’s not Oceiros’ fault_ , Gwynevere thinks. But neither hers: she doesn't want to know how did Lothric and Lorian become so _difficult_. One would tell that the heirs of a house known for the creation of perfect heirs would have proven themselves more willing to follow that cause. A perfect heir, and a perfect Lord of Cinders: and Lothric would have been that, it doesn’t matter how. And yet, Lothric remained as thin as a convict, and the blue inside her husband’s eyes seemed to dampen ever more every day. 

Then – Gwynevere grits her teeth – that Gertrude had come in with her angel chitter. It sure was unpleasant to see her cry and scream mute inside her cage. On the other hand, a good queen must eventually learn not to stick onto trivialities. She hadn’t told Oceiros about her fate – as if he could have cared after her, after what she had done to her. Better, then: one less chain for him.

They sit side by side in Oceiros’ Garden, silent, and Gwynevere stares at him with an unsettling feeling in her chest. Her husband, glossy loose hair, a platinum belt the size of a plate tightened around his waist, sea blue brocade tunic with silver dragon heads embroidered on, and the veins on his hands as inflated as a serpent’s neck. She had to prod him for days just to get him out of the castle again. 

-What are we even doing? We look like two lost souls.- he grunts, ripping Gwynevere away from her thoughts.

-I want you to breathe, my love.- she answers placidly. -You’re as pale as a captive.- 

-I’ve always been like that.-

 _It’s true, but that’s not the point_. -Let me be the one who notices things, alright?- Gwynevere strokes his coarse cheek with her index finger. How long has it been since he last shaved? 

-You look sad, in recent times. Overtaken by something you don’t tell me about.- 

-Nothing new.- Oceiros mumbles.

-It is new indeed, if you don’t even leave the castle anymore. You’re not locked in a cellar, my love. You can go wherever you please.You are the king.-

-I’m fine inside. I can keep an eye on Lothric and Lorian. Out there, it’ also full of accursed deacons, always going around for blessings and other idiocies of their kind.- 

-There are no deacons in here.- Gwynevere shrugs coyly. -They never enter your garden.-

-They would. What do they care anyway? I’m but the king, my words are worthless next to theirs.- 

Gwynevere smiles sadly. There was a time in which she loved the way his eyes widened whenever he was irritated. Now she’s tired and fed up of that stare. She sees it everywhere, even in their bedchamber, and it makes her as sad as winter. 

That’s enough, now. The time has come to try it all. She rises from the bench and pushes him to stand up as well, stare at her face, head up, back straight. The posture of the king he is and must be.

-Osi, little fool you are.- She holds his hand, giving it a squeeze. As bony as their child’s, and that’s no good. So cold, too…

-Look at me. You are the King of Lothric. You are flawless. You don’t even fear the gods.- His eyes light up, and Gwynevere knows she’s speaking right. -And as long as I’m here, I’ll allow no one to overtake you. Neither to snatch our children away from us.- 

-What is it wasn’t enough?- Oceiros blinks. -What if on our own we were no match for those cassocked roaches?-

-Then, we’ll sin them off.- 

Oceiros covers his mouth with his hand, chuckling. Gwynevere pulls him to her chest and kisses him on the lips – those are soft, still, and for the moment it’s enough. 

Something nimble and thin flies at Gwynevere’s side. Oceiros’ eyes block open and he slips off her hold, spins to the side, falls on the ground facedown, hands leaned in front of himself, vermilion blood splattering on the stones. A brown rod bursts straight out of his right shoulder, a wisp of black feathers at the tip. The king’s crown rolls on the grass in chilling silence.

Gwynevere turns around, rigid, and sees a dash of grey fabric vanishing behind the garden wall.-Guards!- she roars. She pulls out the little dagger hidden in her greave and holds onto the grip. -Assassination! Guards, quick!-

Oceiros leans on his left side, teeth so tense it wouldn’t be weird if they all shattered at that very moment. Gwynevere falls to her knees and searches for his hands with her left, dagger still drawn and ready to strike.

-I’m here.- The king’s skinny hands hold onto hers in a trembling clamp. -It’s alright. That was nothing. You will be alright.- 

-It’s poison, get it off me!- he pants. Gwynevere stares yet again at the feathers on the arrow, as black as burnt-off coals. She places the dagger on the stones, blade aimed outwards. She pales looking at the steel tip bursting out of the flesh and the ripped tunic, just a nail of distance from the wooden rod. She wraps her hand in a chunk of her skirt, grabs the rod, pulls, and Oceiros shrieks scratchily. Blood sprays on Gwynevere’s face, red circles on her chest and warm drips on the face. 

She tosses the bloodied arrow behind herself, crosses her legs so that Oceiros can lean his head onto them. She places her hands on her husband’s chest and invokes a Bountiful Sunlight. She clenches her eyelids as the familiar golden glimmer rises from the ground, enfolding them both. Oceiros coughs out more blood, and his shaky hands grip at something under the palms. A healthy-looking pink blush glistens on his sweaty cheeks. -Ah.-

-Shh, my love. Fret not. I’m here, Osi. You’re alright.- Gwynevere whispers. 

-We got them!- a voice screams from behind the wall, and Gwynevere feels a weight fly off her stomach. -Carry them here, now.-

-Gwynevere.- Oceiros moans. Gwynevere faintly smiles, stroking those bizarre blue hair of his. Something else shines of blue on his hand. Gwynevere squints: a ring with an ice-blue gem sculpted in the shape of a shield, as flat and thin as a coin. She doesn’t recognize the stone, but she knows she’s already seen it somewhere.

Thunderous steps close by: two Lothric knights carry the accursed assassin by the shoulder. Their face is covered by a Thrall Hood, they wear a light cuirasse and leather breeches covered in scratches. A third Lothric Knight holds a Compound Bow and a quiver filled with arrows, five of which with a fletching of black feathers.

-Attempted regicide.- Gwynevere roars. -Tie them up at once, and check that they have no other weapons on. Tomorrow, they’ll be executed.-

-No.- Oceiros pants. Gwynevere gasps so much she almost drops him. -My beloved, what is it?-

-No execution. Too- he huffs -fast. They will pay. They must.- 

A stream of blood drips from his mouth and forms a spot on the tiles. Gwynevere holds his hands again and calls upon a second Bountiful Sunlight. 

-Carry His Majesty to his rooms this instant, have him be tended at with all cares.- 

The Knight holding the bow and one of the two holding the assassin grab Oceiros from under his armpits and lead him back out of the garden. A stain of blood the size of a palm spreads on his back. Gwynevere sits on the pavement, hands at her lap. Seen like this, her husband looks like a captive being carried to his cell.

-Just as it will come to you.- she whispers the assassin. They’ve ruined _everything_ , and just for that she wants to kill them with her bare hands.

 

Oceiros doesn’t show up for dinner either. _Why do you do this to me, my sweet love? Why do you leave me alone between our children and that one?_ Sulyvahn wears a tunic of white linen and two rings at the fingers, with stones as big as nuts. She doesn’t recognize them, but she remembers well the homily from the previous evening on how the worthy person of faith gives up material goods and isn’t attracted by the vagaries of jewelry. 

After giving him her salutations she rushes to their bedroom and her beloved as if there was a fire at her heels. She slams the doors as she enters. Oceiros lifts his head off the pillow. Sweat pearls his cheeks, his azure hair are spread around his head. It looks like a halo, Gwynevere thinks, and she’s on the verge of cracking up at the thought of the rage fit her atheist of a husband would have if he was to notice.

-You scared me.- he mumbles. -You never came back. I feared the accursed Pontiff had stopped you along the way.-

-To do me what?- Gwynevere steps forward and sits at her husband’s side in his cell. A thick white bandage is wrapped around his shoulder and glistens in his ever paler skin. 

-I don’t know.- Oceiros grabs at her hands in a rush and pulls himself up, sitting. -Something. That man is slick, sly. Always sticking at the children like a leach. I can’t stand it.-

Gwynevere strokes the smooth back of his hand. It’s almost bizarre to see, free from his leather gloves. She brings the hand to her mouth, kisses it once and holds it to herself. 

-They were to be our heirs. Perfect heirs.- Oceiros punches the duvet. -But no, no. He had to come in and take them from us.-

Oceiros’ eyes look purple at the light of the candle, and for the first time Gwynevere sees all the grey hair in his eyebrows. He has sagging cheeks, pale lips, circles as thick as a finger under his eyes. He looks drained – _consumed,_ one could say. Even the blue hair – the rarest color in all of Lordran, sign of a _perfect_ heir that only Lothric can provide – look faded. 

-I’m losing, can’t you see?- 

Gwynevere shakes her head no. _I can’t lie to him, he doesn’t deserve it_. -You are right, you can’t. You had so many, but they’re all that I have.- 

Gwynevere’s eyes light up. -Osi, you’re a genius!-

-What now?-

-Listen to me.- Gwynevere stands up and crosses her arms. -We know that, if Lothric and Lorian were to betray us, we’d have another. Two, three, as many as you’d want. But if even that wasn’t to work- Gwynevere waits, watching curiosity glimmer in those huge, ever more sunken and forsaken eyes. -We’d use someone else.-

-I understand what you mean.- Oceiros frantically nods. Gwynevere smiles: few would take the news of having bastards so well. But such is Oceiros: he’d give an arm for Lothric and an arm of Lothric for the lineage. She can’t malign him for it, as she knows she’d go even further. In that case, however, it’s much more feasible to legitimize one of _her_ numerous children of the past rather than cut off any more pieces of _their_ son. -Yes, Gwynevere. Oh, yes. For you, for us, for the lineage, I’d legitimize a thousand bastard.- 

-Don’t exaggerate now. I haven’t had _that_ many.- Gwynevere tosses her head backwards and laughs. -The Mother of Rebirth? What about her? Gifted girl, she was.- 

-Cleric?- Oceiros’ lips twitch. -I want no more clerics in between our feet.-

-Then not her. How about my first bastard? Priscilla, of Ariamis.-

-The child of the mighty Seath himself?- Oceiros’ eyes glisten like those of a child. -Yes, damn it all! As strong as he was. She’d be great in our hands!-

-Oh, yes!- Gwynevere stretches her neck and kisses him so strongly she fears to hurt him. But Oceiros holds on to her tunic and holds her close. -I love you.- she moans. She kisses him again, stronger this time. 

-If you do…- Oceiros removes his lips from hers, panting, holding onto her hands. Gwynevere shivers, feeling that accursed ring against her skin. -If you do love me, find a way to rid ourselves of him.- 

Gwynevere smiles:-I would even if I loathed you.- 

She kisses him again, and when they separate they stay breathless for ever longer seconds, looking at one another, hands as tight as the rings of a chain. On his pale chest, the blue hair have the delicate glimmer of calm sea.

-Let’s try, now.- he whispers. -Let us have another child. Keep the accursed Pontiff up all night.-

Gwynevere has to keep herself from leaping on him. -Your shoulder.-

-Damn it. Let’s have a child, Gwynevere. Our thirdborn. Nothing can harm me as long as I wear this ring.- 

 _That ring again_ , Gwynevere mentally sighs. It’s a ball-and-chain at his foot. But that’s not the time to think of it. She throws herself at his neck as Oceiros undoes her dress from behind her neck. Silk slips on her chest, a chill caresses her bare skin. She lets Oceiros kiss her lips again, softly biting his. He holds her breasts in his hands and kisses her chest, nipples, neck. Gwynevere caresses his  naked shoulders, bandage and all. After another kiss, she sneaks her hands under his trousers and climbs to the groin.

She catches a glimpse of Oceiros’ eyes, lighting up of what looks like fear. The king screams as if another arrow had struck him, and pushes her off him with his open palms.

Gwynevere shoves her hair off her face and stares at him in terror. His arms are crossed at the groin, his back hunched over, his eyes blocked open and stunned. 

-My love, what was that?-

-If you love me, never do this again.-

-I always did it, I thought you enjoyed it.- 

-Never do this again. I beg you. I meant not to hurt you, but don’t do this no more.- 

At “no more”, his voice cracks. When Gwynevere, turning around the bed, reaches his side, she sees the tears damping his cheeks. The loose hair fall onto the shoulders, the sunken eyes look like windows to the Abyss. He looks even paler and more emaciated than before. 

Gwynevere sits by his side and runs her arm around his waist, but without ever touching him. It’s only when Oceiros nods yes that she holds him to herself. He quivers feverishly. What’s with him? In the name of Lordran, what’s come over him?

-What’s consuming you, my love?-

Oceiros sobs as she places her lips upon his temples.

-I’ll kill that Sulyvahn.- he grunts through his teeth. -I’ll kill him, squish him, burn him.-

 _It’s only this, that’s tormenting him so?_ They were back to the start, spitting dolorous rage on that miserable man of the church. Briefest _jailbreak ever recorded._ Gwynevere strokes his damp cheek.

-Tell me what has come over you.- 

The king shrinks into his shoulders, covering his face with his hands. -I cannot tell.- 

-Let me help you. I’m your wife.- _And I loathe that preacher as much as you do._

-If you truly want to help me.- Oceiros furiously wipes his eyes. -Make so that the wretched cleric dies. I want him dead, now, in the worst of ways. If he comes any close to my Lothric and Lorian, I…-

-And die he shall.- Gwynevere places her index on his mouth. -Him, and whoever dares defend him. This town is ours, not his. And he shall pay.-

She embraces him, cradling him, covering the back of his head and his neck in kisses, stroking his hair. For that evening, the third child will have to wait. _But if Osi doesn’t free himself from his mental prison as fast as possible, we could lose the first and second as well._

-Swear it?- he sobs.

Gwynevere sighs, feels his embrace tighten.

-I do.- 

 

Silver Knights await her in the dungeons, but Gwynevere has required to be left alone. She grabs hold of a Divine Blessing and pours its content in the ring tray to the last drop. She fills it with water from the basin by the bed, placing it back on her desk.

 _We were right at not trusting Sulyvahn_ , she thinks with gritted teeth. Priestesses, Deacons and Boreal Soldiers cloaked in azure invade the courtyard of Anor Londo like a swarm of locusts, the cries seem to seep from the depth of earth itself. She tosses two golden bracelets and a pink diamond pendant to the bottom of her sack. She’d give all she has to embrace Ocelotte one last time. But it’s best for the girl to stay where she is, protected by the firm hands of Gwyndolin and the Silver Knights. Not being able to fight frustrates her, but she can’t think of what would happen to the kingdom if they were to catch her. She hears thuds at the door, and holds her sack close to her chest. She eyes the golden greave at her right ankle.

_Better a dead queen than a bargaining chip queen. If he can’t have me, Sulyvahn the Usurper will have my daughter, and she will be more of a queen than I ever could be._

When the Dancer kicks down the door, and two Irithyll Priestesses swarm into the room brandishing their sabers, Gwynevere sits at her vanity, arms crossed.

-Your Majesty.- Kendra’s voice is as thin and soft as the silks that cloak her. -Thou must follow us, now. Orders from the Pontiff.- _Who else could it have been?_ Gwynevere shrugs. -What did you do to mine brother and to the Lady Rosaria?-

 _And my daughter, my dear little Ocelotte_. She had _Osi_ to know that the child had been stillborn – child, not boy or girl, the least he knew at that point the better – and her heart tightened whenever she thought back at the moment of the announcement. He had run into the corridor, slamming the door behind his back, roaring “don’t touch me, you wretched slave” in a tone that dripped of tears when a servant had dared grab him for a moment. He had probably locked himself back into that damned Archives, sticking who-knows-what to his skin and screaming the same old rhymes about dragons that kept the whole palace awake every night. 

At Anor Londo, at home, she would have found a way to get _Osi_ back. And then, she had thought to give herself courage, Sulyvahn and his lackeys better watch their backs. In the meantime, she had made herself into _Osi_ ’s jailer. Worthy mate of a Consumed King. 

-I want not thee to be hurt, My Lady.- Kendra whispers. -But we shall resort to less courteous means, lest thou dost not obey at this very moment.-   

-Nobody imprisoneth the Queen of Lothric and goeth unpunished for it.- Gwynevere roars. -I demand to know about mine brother.- 

-The Darkmoon Deity and the Mother of Rebirth await in the dungeons, chained as proxy. Thine other sister, the crossbreed child, hast met them in their cells, and shall soon be escorted to her rooms. The Pontiff shall ensure that.- 

At the word “sister”, Gwynevere wants to weep of joy. _Live, my Ocelotte. You’ll be the lone survivor, I can feel this. And when the time has come, Sulyvahn and his wormy Deacons will kiss your feet._ She almost wants to laugh: it’s like hearing Oceiros again. At that thought, a new chill shakes her. Lothric and Loirian would never sink to parricide. She clenches her teeth. -Mine husband? What of him?-

-No more questions. Now, thou cometh with us.- The Dancer turns to the Priestesses at her back. -Seize her at once.-

 _Now_ , Gwynevere thinks. She draws the dagger from her greave and pushes the blade towards her stomach with both hands.

For a moment, Kendra and the Priestesses are gone. _Gwyn, father mine, protect me if you can_. It’s as if a wolf has just bitten her womb: the burning, slippery pain of a thousand childbirths at once. She opens her mouth in pain as she presses the blade with all her might. Her knees knock against the floor, tears push on her eyelids. A dense puddle widens under her and it’s beautiful, soft, warm. She lays on her back, letting go of the dagger. She sees the Dancer’s feet and ankles stumbling away from her.

-That Blessing. Give it to me. She is not to die!-

One of the three leans towards the bedside table and grabs something from the deck. Calves and knees appear from above the ankles. The Dancer pushes two fingers on her nose and holds her chin in her hand, pulling it downwards. Her skin is burning cold, Gwynevere’s jaw pulsates in her hold. She emits a wail and catches a glimpse of the liquid dripping in her mouth.

She smiles. _I knew it, you will notice it._ She closes her eyes and lets what’s to happen happen, praying Gwyn and Fina and Lloyd and Nito and Caitha and even Velka that Gwyndolin, Rosaria, Lothric, Lorian and Ocelotte – and who knows how many others she has filled every land of – resist till the end, glorious and proud as they deserve. Kendra is pushing on her shoulder, calling for help. She meant no harm, in the end. It wasn’t her fault. Sulyvahn ruins good people wherever he goes. 

In the midst of blurry faces she sees him, and in his cerulean eyes shines a sweetness she believed long forgotten. 

- _Osi_.- she whispers. 

Oceiros will never dare to do what she has done, Oceiros is too stubborn and not lucid enough to think of death, and the thought rips one last, weak smile off Gwynevere’s lips. _Avenge me if you can. I love you._

Darkness clouds her, her flesh feels limp, a taste as bitter as poison fills her mouth. A dragon roars, a scream that sounds like a sob, and that is the last sound. 


	5. Sweet Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surviving in Blighttown is hard enough, but Queelag, Daughter of the Witch of Izalith, is determined to do what she can to ensure survival for herself and her beloved sister Queelan. In spite of anyone they come across – too bad Queelan has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Tiffany (Chaos Witch Queelag), Hyuna (Fair Lady Queelan) and Paolo Roldan (Chaos Servant Eingyi)

**Prompt #05:**  Water

**Definition:**  N.1, Chemical compound of two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen, colorless, odorless, tasteless; main constituent of living organism. Spread of water. 

**Characters:** Chaos Witch Queelag, Fair Lady/Queelan

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, post-Bed Of Chaos disaster. 

**Length:** 3.357 words. 

**Trigger Warning:** body horror, disease, epidemic, minor character death

 

> “ _The prettiest crowd that you had ever seen_
> 
> _Ribbons in our hair and our eyes gleamed mean_
> 
> _A freshmen generation of degenerate beauty queens_
> 
> _And you know something?_
> 
> _They were the only friends I ever had_ ”

( **Lana del Rey** , _**[This Is What Makes Us Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=941DmatcK8M)**_ )” 

 

The water of Blighttown is green – Queelag’s least favorite color. The witch turns her mouth as she submerges the pitcher into the slippery slime. She can’t even avert her eyes: it’s green wherever she turns, including the ceiling. She picks up the algae-covered jar and covers her nose with her free hand. She scampers out of the swampy water one moment before the poison can take its effect. 

A brushing sound at her right makes her jump. A skinny woman leaps out of a cane thicket on her fours, drooling like a rabid dog. She’s completely naked, and her milky skin is spotted in lumpy, black blisters. The biggest, the size of a medallion, completely covers her left eyebrow. The woman is hairless, and when she screams it sounds like the cry of a vulture. 

-Help! Help me!- she exclaims. A blister the size of a nail bounces under her mouth as she speaks. A whitish hand, nailless fingers, unfolds in her direction. 

-At me, witch!- she screams. -Help! There’s lots of us!-

-I know, I know.- Queelag mumbles. She draws her Furysword from the mud and holds it with the right. The jar held to the chest inundates her nose with fumes that reek of death. Queelag holds her breath as she pushes the blade of the Furysword into the woman’s uncovered neck. The blood drips vermillion and streams into the waters of the swamp. Queelag’s eyes follow its snake-like descent. A sigh of relief escapes the witch’s lips. It’s so nice to finally see a different color in between all that green. Even the jar in which she carries the water is made of green terracotta. _This one, though, I have deserved_. Queelan hadn’t been happy when she had killed those pilgrims to get it. She had held the hand of the last one standing, faintly apologizing. 

-It’s better for them, believe me.- Queelag had said.-This place is a morgue.- 

 

Queelag’s little arachnid paws produce a soft noise as the sink into the mud, like a blade cutting through a cushion. Her eyelids feel heavier at every step. Queelag tugs at her hair to stay vigil. It’s that accursed poison, I’m sure. 

Her arms are sticky, her hair stringy, her neck greasy to the touch. She’d give anything for a real bath. The swamp water reeks so much it makes her feel like throwing up, but there’s nothing else for the moment. She and Queelan will have to wait for long before washing up. They’ll have to let the mud drop to the bottom of the jar, separate them, and boil the water to purify it. She’d better drink as much as possible before Queelan gets another insane charity idea. 

A pale, scrawny man lays curled up at the gate of their cavern, completely naked except the duvet wrapped around his private parts. He has a blister the size of a plum on the neck and some on his hands, but his stare is lucid enough to spare him the sword, at the moment. 

-You must be the sister of the Fair Lady.- he exclaims, removing his filthy hair off his face. -If she’s a quarter as beautiful as you are, she truly must be the angelic creature they all talk about.-

-I am not here to be mocked, sir.- Queelag grunts. -Who’s this Fair Lady? Inside there only resides my sister Queelan, and I won’t allow you to cause her any pain.-

The man’s eyes light up. He stretches his neck, and Queelag takes a better look at the blister inflating his skin next to the left scapula. It’s wide and flat, not unlike a bruise, and the color is also closer to grey than pewter. It doesn’t look like those on the lady at the swamp, or the other disgusting infected ones she’d come across in her explorations. Many, too many to count, she has killed herself. The first ones, she would bury, digging holes with her paws in spots that didn’t deserve to be marked on a map. Now she abandons corpses wherever, adding plague to the plague. She lays them in the mud facedown, for she doesn’t want their putrefied faces to follow her to their home. As for now, the only face allowed into her dreams is Queelan’s – skin like moon, blonde and yet more opaque hair, and those big, clear, chestnut eyes, whose sweetness is a drop of honey in a pie soaked in poison. 

-Queelan?- the man wipes the drool off his mouth. -Is this the sweet name of our savior? So, if you meet her, bring Lady Queelan our salutations.- 

A suspicion, as terrible as death itself, sneaks through Queelag’s mouth. She hastily pick up the Furysword and slithers into the crevice that leads to their cavern, pushing away the annoying guest with the weapon’s rod. Her heart beats to hard it leaves her breathless. 

-Queelan!- she screams. A man appears from the darkness, wrapped in a ragged tunic, and almost bumps on her. Queelag smacks him with the flat side of her weapon and rushes over him. -Queelan! Sister! What are you doing?-

Another man, a couple of women wrapped in brown mantles, a boy about twelve of age, as thin as a puppet. He throws himself to the side of the tunnel when Queelag comes at him, with unexpected agility. He turns his stare to the witch’s: he has olive skin and eyes so black they make the blisters that cover his naked chest look pale. And yet he smiles, as if he was just given a new toy. _Quelay?_ , Queelag thinks staggering back. She shakes her head and pants through the corridor. He can’t be Quelay: he’s gone like all of her sisters, he will never be back, no point in looking for his face and his eyes elsewhere. She remembers him, the newest him, the man, sobbing with a deep voice that wasn’t his: but that wasn’t a human voice either, it sounded like the grumble of a bull, and had those fiery eyes that looked as if they were spreading all over his face as lava dripped all over it. 

_Quelay is gone, Galana lays lifeless in our old city, Grana and Quelana have ran off, and I don’t even dare to think of what has happened to Isalia, Ivana and Mother._ Queelag’s family is now only comprised of one sister, and pretending otherwise will only hurt more. 

-Queelan!- she exclaims. She places the jar against the entrance wall and rushes into her sister’s room stepping over six or seven more afflicted people. -What are these doing here? What’s going on?-

Queelan emits a high-pitched cry, hands covering her face. -Don’t scream like so, sister dear. I beg of you. I have a strong headache.-

Queelag moves back. -I apologize.- She lowers her voice, moving closer to her. She catches a glimpse of the afflicted ones at the entrance staggering back to the entrance. A bald man, as paled as a duvet, sits cross-legged in front of Queelan. His tiny eyes light up when he sees her coming close. She stretches a pocked hand in her direction. 

-It’s you, then? The sister of which the Fair Lady always talks about?-

-I know of no Fair Lady.- Queelag holds herself from yelling at the last moment, but her tone is harsh. -Who are you? What are you doing here?-

-Oh, you haven’t been informed?- The man lifts himself on naked, shaky legs, badly covered by the short breeches. -We’re all very grateful at your dear sister. She healed us all, see.-

Queelag studies that pale palm, following with her eyes the constellation of bruises. She rapidly stares at Queelan, her dazzled eyes, feverishly reddened cheeks, and lips, diaphanous as well, but striped in red in the cracks. Queelag jumps back, terrorized.

-Tell me it’s not true.- she screams above the thumping of her heart.

-Queelag, please.- Queelan peeps, a voice that sounds as if it’s leaving a shell of stone. -Tone it down.- 

-Tell me it’s not true.- Queelag repeats in a quieter town. Queelan’s cheeks flash of pink – a color that doesn’t fit her. She looks like a painting restored by an unskilled hand. -You drank that, Queelan! Why?-

-They needed that.- the other pants, .’Tis nothing, sister dear. I just wanted to heal those poor people in need.-

Queelag’s hands shake. She lets go of her sister and moves backwards again, chills vibrating on her bare skin. She feels like vomiting. -No.- she murmurs. -No, please. No.-

-Queelag? Are you still there?-

She forces herself to nod, short of breath and blocked eyes. The bald man moves to the wall, hands conjoined. Queelag pushes him away with her paw. -Who are you? Who are these?-

-Simply sick people.- Queelan murmurs. -They needed help. Don’t get angry at me, Queelag. Nothing will harm me.- 

Queelag shakes her hand like a phrenetic. -It will harm you!- she exclaims. -Have you seen what those are reduced to? You don’t have to end up like this! You can’t do this to me.-

-Don’t call them “those”. They’re innocents. Victims. Why can’t I help them?- Queelan tightens her fists, so thin her bones look as if they’re about to pierce through her skin. -Nothing will harm me, I swear it on out house at Izalith.- 

At those words, Queelag grabs two strands of her hair. She throws herself at her sister, grabbing her wrists again, rattling them. The bald man moves backwards, covering his eyes. The trembling cries and the rushed steps of the other patients sound behind her back. 

-Have you seen, or not, what has happened to our sisters!- Queelan bars her eyes, breathing out. -Have you seen what they have ended up as? It’s only the two of us now!-

Queelan moves back, humid and vacuous eyes. -Look at yourself, sister! You’re poisoning yourself!- She turns back to the door, waving the Furysword around. -All of you, leave!- she screams at the already empty door. -Begone! This is no hospital!- 

-No!- Queelan’s voice is a faint sigh. -Please, Queelag! Don’t…-

A cough chokes her words. Queelag turn back to her just in time to receive a black spit to the face. She shuts her eyes, she wipes her face with her naked arm. What looks like a string of ink drips from her mouth, shining in the candor of her face like a cut on a sheet of paper. 

-Sit.- Queelag manages to whisper. Her sister’s hold tightens around her wrists, but doesn’t manage to hurt her still. Queelan nods, lowering herself slowly. Queelag turns at the wall. 

-You!- the bald man gasps. -Are you talking to me, My Lady?-

-Do you have a name?- 

-You can call me Eingyi, My Lady.- The man rubs his purulent hands on one another. -The relatives of the Fair Lady are Lords of mine themselves. Allow me to serve you. Queelag, if I’m not mistaken.-

-Quiet now, and go get that water down there.-

Eingyi crawls to the cave’s entrance. His soles are bleeding: he must have walked barefoot for long. For a moment, Queelag feels pity for him. Then Eingyi comes back, and gives her the jar with shaky and sweaty hands. 

-Here, My Lady. With all the deference.-

-Shut your mouth.-

Queelag’s spider jaws spits a fireball the size of the head of a mace on the ground. A puddle of lava spreads on the ground. Eingyi jumps back with a choked cry. _Run, now. Run off in fear_ , Queelag prays, but there are no gods to hear her in Blighttown. The little man sits back down cross-legged, eyes fixed on the pale Queelan. 

-You speak our tongue, Lady Queelag?-

-It appears you don’t speak mine, as I have just told you to shut up.- 

Queelag raises her eyes above Eingyi’s ugly emaciated face. Queelan’s eyes are ajar, lips stained of that filth she has swallowed. She’s so pale, she looks as if she’s about to vanish. 

_Mother mine, if you can hear me: leave me Queelan at least, or I’ll die_. 

A huff escapes her sister’s lips. Her hands tremble, tight around her bare breasts. 

Queelag holds the jar full of water above the puddle of lava and feverishly stares at the surface, caressed by a twister of bubbles. 

 

-Yes, Queelan is my oldest sister. I’m the youngest, besides our little brother Quelay.- _We found him sobbing in a puddle of his own lava_. -It was my sister Galana who took care of him at first.- 

-More Fair Ladies, out there?- 

_It’s unbelievable how thin and penetrating the blows of boredom are_. Had Queelan known, a few minutes earlier, that she’d end up having small talk with Eingyi, she’d have flailed herself with her own Furysword. Queelan lays asleep, lips deeply washed and wiped with a rip of the little man’s trousers, the warm fumes coming from the jar full of water that make her nostrils sweetly vibrate. Even in her sleep, she’s as pretty as a rose, but Queelag can’t look at her. She feels like choking whenever she turns around. 

-There was seven of us.- she tells Eingyi. -Queelan’s but one year older than me. The eldest, she was named Isalia.- 

_She had hair like amber and eyes that looked like shards of steel_. She could destroy a living, full force dragon with one blow of her pyromancy. Two dragons too, had she wanted to. At least, that’s what she tells Eingyi, and the surprised expression on the little man almost makes her laugh.

-’Tis all true, My Lady?- he asks, eyes twinkling like Titanite. 

-As true as me and you.- the witch answers crossing her fingers behind her back. 

Eingyi leans his back at the wall. He turns to Queelan: Queelag quickly shuts her eyes. -The secondborn, Ivana…-

Eingyi turns to her. -Tell me of her, I beg of you.- 

There’s something liberating, cathartic even, in telling lies to that irritating midget. He quivers and smiles more and more as she tells Eingyi of the eagle Ivana had impaled with her spear at a mile of distance, of the hundred mercenaries Galana she defeated with an arrow in her foot, of the horde of wild lions Grana had tamed with her pyromancies, and of the fearsome guild of sorcerers of Melfia whom Quelana had been able, first and only in the world, to steal the talisman source of their power from. Even Quelay, sad little beast he is, obtains an act of heroism, and Eingyi opens his mouth agape as she tells him of the boulder her little brother has lifted up with one hand, rescuing a child trapped underneath.

All as false as a coin made of tin, truly: Eingyi’s dazed expression, those tiny rat eyes that glisten of seemingly authentic emotion, is enough to cancel all regrets. 

-The Fair Lady has hinted the presence of sisters,- he murmurs with haughtiness in his voice, -but never could I have ever imagined they’d be capable of such noble gestures.- 

The little man’s forcefully aulic language rips a grimace out of Queelag’s mouth. 

-Our sisters, they were grand.-

-Undoubtedly so.- Eingyi stretches his arms. -The spear welder, for example. She must have been worthy of Gwyn’s army, she did. Imagine the might that spear toss must have had. And the guild of sorcerers, oh my…-

_What sorcerers? The ones I made up, maybe? You truly are an ingenue if you believe I’d allow you to get in contact with what my family truly was. You’re not worth it, you don’t deserve it: even less, you deserve Queelan. You’re a spit in a bucket of pure water._

Those aren’t the stories the daughters of Izalith deserve: being reduced to faceless golems welding spears, swords and spells doesn’t fit with what they actually were. Queelag shuts her eyes, leaves Eingyi’s chatter to fade away. To those hundred mercenaries, Galana would have offered assistance and food without even asking where they were from. Ivana had defeated a Lion, true, but she’d never dare to attack an eagle. Isalia had fought dragons, but she loved painting all the same, and she had given Quelay, for the boy’s first birthday in their family, a two-and-a-half feet tall painting portraying the great Kalameet, working on it for almost six months. Grana could be emotive, but she never attacked unprovoked, and one stare from Isalia or Mother was enough to stop her. 

And Quelana… Queelag shakes her hear, a bitter smile on dry lips. That girl would burst in tears of regret even at stealing cookies. And it had happened, once. Even Queelan had laughed it off. 

She comes closer, quietly, to where the sister lays limp. Her skin is bitter green, like a cabbage rotted in the sun, and her once golden hair have gone dirty white. They fall around her head like tow – _the veil of a penitent, that my sister doesn’t deserve to wear_. 

She strokes her cheek, warm, pulsating of blood. Even with the care given to her, she’ll never be the same again. She’s always been like that: the only one in Lordran whose stubbornness rivaled that of Sir Artorias. She could have repeated it every day, hour by hour, week by week, to not even dare to drink that revolting black puss: Queelan would have done it anyway, because so she wanted to. But stubbornness fits badly with a kind soul, and Queelan, as she is, seems to be losing chunks of herself at every breath. 

-What of the Fair Lady?- Eingyi asks, making her jump. -What noble gestures has the Fair Lady performed?-

-Great ones indeed.- Queelag murmurs without turning around. She holds her sister’s hand and rubs it between her own. -She performed acts that made our sister’s pale. She’s the kindest, strongest and bravest. So brave to sacrifice herself for a whole swamp of accursed people.- 

Eingyi retreats to the wall, staring at his own feet. Having embarrassed him makes Queelag feel proud: an underground cave doesn’t fill _itself_ in venomous puss. 

Eingyi’s eyes lift yet again. -Look now, Lady Queelag. The Fair Lady.- 

A huff leaves Queelan’s mouth, as delicate as a feather falling on silk. Queelag turns around in a trample of tiny paws.

-Queelan! You’re awake!-

-Oh?- The girl raises her face. Queelag scampers backwards. Her face is frail, the enunciation slow. She comes closer, slowly, stroking her face. 

-Worry not. I’m fine.- Queelan strokes the air, as if to sculpt illusory clay. Queelag rushes to grab them, and they’re so scorching they make her think of Quelay. 

-Swear it to me?- Queelag whispers. -You don’t say it just to make me happy?-

-It didn’t hurt. It was sweet. Like Ivana’s cupcakes. Remember those? The ones with apple confiture.-

-Yes.- Queelag babbles. She keeps her voice low, so Queelan doesn’t hear her sob, and from the way she smiles she can tell with relief she didn’t smile. -The honey ones were delicious too. I hope the sisters and Quelay are fine, wherever they are,- 

Queelan smiles. She’s one year older than her, but her lips are small and puffy like a child’s. -Are you thirsty? It’s hot in here. You can ask Eingyi to give you some water, Queelag.- 

The Furysword slips off Queelag’s hands and tinkles against the rocks. Queelan is a greenish stain behind a wall of tears: all Queelag distinguishes are two agape, empty eyes, that feel as if they’re digging within her skin.

-Have I said something wrong? Queelag? Are you still there?-

Queelag hugs her sister, shivering at the sickly boiling of her skin, and praying whoever could hear her that the horrid drink rotting in her sister’s stomach is sweeter than her own tears. 

 

-You haven’t told me of yourself.- Eingyi says that evening. -Have you not performed any heroics, like your sisters?-

Queelag shakes her head. -I do have one to perform now, thought, and I swear on our great Izalith, that I will comply.- 

The first humanity is placed by Queelan’s shaky arms; Queelag and Eingyi share a smile.


	6. The Rot Within You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ornstein, the valiant Dragonslayer of Anor Londo, loved his fellow knight Artorias more than life itself, and now that he's dead he feels as if there's nothing worthy left in the world itself. His new partner, crass and cannibalistic Executioner Smough, is of no consolation. Until the day Ornstein decides that the choking pain within him is too much to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Donald Glover (Dragonslayer Ornstein), Dave Batista (Executioner Smough) and Luhan (Knight Artorias).

**Prompt #06:**  Breathing

 **Definition:**  N.1, Process through which the gas exchange between the organism and the environment is realized; performing the process of breathing; breathing air in and out; living. 

 **Characters:** Dragonslayer Ornstein, Executioner Smough

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, Post-Death of Artorias

 **Length:** 3.652 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** attempted suicide, drowning, hinted depression, mention of cannibalism, mention of choking and suffocation  

 

> " _Saw all of the saints lock up the gates_
> 
> _I could not enter_
> 
> _Walked into the flames, called out your name_
> 
> _But there was no answer_ "

( **Adam Lambert** , [**_Ghost Town_** )](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix8ocFEMa1o)

 

 

Among the many he had given him, it was three kisses that Ornstein remembered the most. 

There was the first one, underneath one of the staircases in the royal palace. Artorias’ armor was as polished as a mirror, and the short black hair glistened in sweat. Ornstein hadn’t been surprised at the salty flavor of his mouth, but he had remained breathless as the Wolf Knight’s arms had wrapped around him. Chiseled, longer than his own, but as soft as feather cushions as they held him. 

He had pushed himself away from him, panting, staring right in those eyes of his, black enough to devour all the light nearby – at least, such was as he saw them, and he feels even more breathless as he thinks back at them at night.

The second had been just as salty, but of tears. Artorias clenched his teeth, showing his jaws like an actual wolf, and tears dripped slow and copious on the duvets of Ornstein’s bed. 

-It wasn’t your fault.- Ornstein had held his hands – hands that shook, hands that didn’t fit him • and had felt a choking regret at every blink on those big red eyes. -Havel did it all on his own. You have no part in what happened.- 

He had feared to choke, again, when Artorias threw his hands at his neck. Next to him, Ornstein had always felt like a pygmy: not that it mattered anything, as long as the man he loved was willing to sink down to reach hi,. 

-I should have interceded for him. Have you any idea where Lord Gwyn has locked him? One goes insane for much less. I stayed quiet, like a coward. He carried me to safety when we fought Meraxes Diamondscales at the Ash Lake, you know? You should have seen him: he broke one of her legs with his Dragon Tooth, and carried me off on his shoulders as she tried trampling over him. What a fool I have been, in that battle.-

-You told me about it.- Ornstein had stroked the back of Artorias’ hands. -Was she not the one you tried to kill by leaping atop her head?-

Artorias had nodded, a sad smile on his rouge lips. -She unseated me, and I knocked my head on a rock. What had come onto me?-

Him and his pride. Ornstein had pulled him to himself and kissed him, slowly, a faint snap of lips in the silence of the room, only broken before by Artorias’ sobbing. It was the first time he had taken the initiative, and sometimes he saw it again whenever he closed his eyes, as soft and polite as any true night, whispering “I love you” with that ever confident voice. 

The third kiss, the one he remembered the better, the one that most of all tasted of salt, had been their farewell. 

 

He’s tired, Ornstein. Whenever he looks at himself in the mirror and sees the bloodied eyes shining in between his brown cheeks, the untangled curls of his dark beard, his opaque skin, he doesn’t even feel indignant anymore. Artorias had kissed all of that too – his curls had been softer and his eyes brighter, and the Wolf Knight had kissed him there so many times they’d get confused with one another. 

He puts his helm on: that too needs a good polish, and the rest of the armor too. He drags himself out of his bedroom, staring at the ground through the holes on the helm. As for now, he knows all those damned corridors by heart, and the marbles of the floors, and the figures that the light coming through the windows traces on the golden walls. He sighs, as he listens to the slow echo of his lonely steps. Two Silver Knights pass him by. -General.- they scream in unison. Ornstein barely lifts his head, lowering his stare again as they leave. 

 _It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself. He walks with an empty stare, ever lower eyes, and he feels like choking at every step he takes. _I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine_. 

-Ornstein! Hey!- Sounds behind his back. The knight jumps seeing Executioner Smough leaning against the wall, the head of his Greathammer reclined on the floor. He wears a brown nightgown, torn and stained of scarlet in many spots. Even with his mouth shut, the smell of wine still pinches Ornstein’s nose. 

-What is it?- he asks brusquely. 

-What a face!- Smough exclaims. -Your chin is scraping at the floor. What have you been doing yesterday?-

-Business of mine.- Ornstein turns his back at him and walks at a faster pace down the corridor. _Getting out, that’s all it takes_. And then it’ll all fix itself, and he will be able to go back to breathing with Artorias’ mouth in front of his. He walks even faster, but Smough is tailing up behind him and every step makes the floor rumble. Making his head spin even more than before. _Curse the day Gwyn assigned me this yokel as a partner_. A part of him wants to think of it as a small act of kindness by the Lord of Cinders, to chase away the memory of Artorias better, but Ornstein doesn’t like deluding himself. 

-Have you fallen out of bed, Ornstein?- Smough crosses his arms on the chest. -You’re more bitter than a Basilisk.-

-I said it’s all business of mine. Leave me be, Smough. Leave me.- 

Ornstein slips through a door and slams it behind his back. He hears Smough’s deep breaths behind the wood – a pork with asthma, nothing to compare with Artorias’ gentle huffs as they made love. He’s not following him, though. For once, the Executioner is worth a purpose. 

 _It’ll be fine_ , Ornstein repeats, and he keeps repeating it until the gentle crush of the waters of the Petite Londo Ruins caresses his hair, curling them up even more than they were before. He takes a deep breath. Soon, it’ll all be over. 

 

 _Artorias_. Gorgeous as a dream, strong as a legend, but tremendously real when he had loved him. Ornstein wears the complete Lion Knight armor, but the gold barely shines, opaque of the dust that has poured on it in days of no care. Even the feline eyes carved on the helm look sad, and the mane flat, as he admires his view on the lake imagining two strong, long arms wrapped around his shoulders, two soft lips on his, and a warm strong voice whispering how much he loves him.

 _Artorias_. Ornstein takes one step forward, observing enraptured the circles on the water around his ankles. One more step, some more too, and soon the surface strokes at his throat, and water drips through the holes in the metal, and it’s so cold it leave shim out of breath. 

He walks further, and further more, and the silver surface looks miles far off, and the water gets darker and pours through the helm’s eye holes. Something slippery and fast runs under his thighs. Ornstein jumps. stumbling backwards. _A fish, nothing more than an accursed fish_. He lays on his back on the lake bed, pressure squishing his head with the force of a giant, waiting for the water to swallow him whole. 

 _Artorias_. Alabaster face, dark gently curved eyes, onyx black hair, so straight and finely cut they looked like a second helm. The sobs choke Ornstein and fill his mouth and esophagus with water. His lungs burn, his throat itches, his eyelids het heavier and heavier. He shudders and throbs in his metal prison. 

The surface muds and pulsates, frantic waves battle one another away from his eyes. _A storm is coming_ , he distractedly thinks. A colossal, rounded shadow, cloaks the sun and widens on his motionless body. For a moment, the Dragonslayer relaxes: _the time has come_. It’ll all be fine, it’ll be fast and it will stop hurting and Artorias will be there to console him. 

The shadow widens and moves, alive. With the little breath he has left, Ornstein can barely lift his neck to see two arms the size of snake tails lowering to the spot he lays upon, wrap around his hips, lift him up like a corpse. A wide, soft chest pressed against his cheek. Ornstein turns to the surface and sees a huge fist smashing something small and white to dust. 

When the darkness fades away, Ornstein lays upon the unmistakable marble floor, trapped between a column and Smough’s back – even on his knees, that man is the size of an Armored Boar – as the last tears escape his eyes and mix with the residual water on his cheeks. 

-What for, Ornstein?-

The Dragonslayer leans upon the column – or at least, a column it should be. His sight is so blurred that Smough, in his soaking dirty white shorts, stuck to his chest, seems to vanish against the wall. But when the Executioner rips his helm off his head and turns his face to his own, clenching his cheeks in his palms, Ornstein sees nothing else. 

-What for, Ornstein? Tell me why!-. Smough repeats. Ornstein grabs his wrists and pushes them off his face. -Why did you do it? Do you want to make all this mess even more complicated?- 

Ornstein blinks, crawling and retreating to the wall. The Main Hall of the royal palace of Anor Londo, in which he had entered so many times – with the man he loved still. 

-So?- Smough repeats. -Ornstein? Have fish eaten your tongue?-

-I-I can’t.- is all he manages to say. He turns his eyes away from the other, following the light patters in the slots on the columns. 

Smough crosses his arms.-What can’t you?-

-I can’t. I can’t take it. I want him back, he must come back.-

-You want Artorias to come back to you. I want to be come a knight.- Smough shrugs and stands up. -Not always do we obtain what we want.-

For a moment, Ornstein really feels breathless. He lifts his eyes from the ground, the reflection of the high sun through the glass stabbing at his eyes. And yet it’s beautiful, a thousand times more than living locked away in an Abyss that knows no light. He stands up hastily and throws himself at Smough, pummeling his chest in fists, blinded by tears.

-Shut up! Shut up!- His throat burns, his ears bleep at every violent sniff. -What do you know? You can’t love! You love no one! You can’t talk! You have no right!-

He rips his tears off his face and sees Smough immobile, arms slumped to the hips, a bored expression on a face way too high above his fists. His knees buckle, the room spins like a torture wheel. Ornstein sobs in his palms, raucous, fingers clawing at his face and hair. 

He could rip them off, one by one, until there’s nothing but blood left on his bald cranium. He could claw away at his own face, eyes and teeth and tongue. Let the sun of Anor Londo burn his bare muscle and take away at least some of his pain. Useless face, that of his, now that there’s no Artorias left to kiss him.

And yet, his fingers tremble too much for that too. Sobs are relentless, choking. 

Ornstein lets himself fall on the stone, frantically murmuring Artorias’ name, holding himself in a cold, incomplete embrace. Tears drip in his mouth and burn like gall. And it’s with that taste in his mouth, as burning and terrible as their last kiss, that Ornstein falls into a disjointed slumber. 

 

The first thing he notices, opening his eyes, is the shadow. Wide, round, with a thin extremity to the tip. It looms upon him like a blanket. The second thing is his armor, gracelessly tossed in a corner of the room – his _own_ room, he realizes with astonishment – the lion head helm hanging from a spear and looking like a decapitated head. 

When Ornstein raises his eyes, eyes still pained, Smough is sitting cross-legged on the ground, like in a high tea ceremony, scratching dirt off his huge hammer. Ornstein stretches his numb back and curls up on his pillow. He wears a nightgown that smells clean, and Smough is there, in front of him, undeniable. 

-You stayed there?- is all that comes out of him. 

-Was I to go anywhere?-

Ornstein rubs his fingers on his temples. He has a strong headache, water pressure didn’t do him good. He moans, coughs, blinks. 

The Executioner’s prominent belly is held by a belt with a gold buckle, and the reflection of twilight through the window leans on Smough’s round cheeks, painting the dark skin of his shaved cheeks a yellow blaze. Ornstein rubs at his eyes, disoriented. The sun was high when he had gone to the lake. -How long have I slept, Smough?-

-Bah. Hours, probably. ’Tis good too, this morning you had bags under your eyes that would make Nito jealous.-

He guffaws, but Ornstein doesn’t want to join. He crosses his arms, forcing intimidation on himself. -Have you been following me?-

-Someone has to keep an eye on you knights. You end up doing this kind of foolishness.- 

Ornstein clenches his fists, a sharp stab of pain pierces through his skull. -That wasn’t foolishness.- he produces uncertainly. Smough covers his mouth with his enormous hand and cackles.

-No foolishness, ay? You truly believe Artorias would jump out of the abyss with open arms and scream “Hey, Ornstein, a little bird has told me that you drowned yourself me. You have made the miracle, and here I am”?-

Ornstein frantically shakes his head, quivering. Smough gives a sideway glance. -Before leaving, has Artorias told you to end it if he failed?-

Another shake of the head, another crooked smile. Ornstein has always hated Smough’s helm, with that flat and grotesque face, but at that moment, he’d give his precious Leo Ring to have that in front of himself instead of his comrade’s tiny dark eyes. He wants to lock himself into his armor, seal his eyes with wax like it has happened to Gough, choke away trapped inside his own iron: but he knows that Artorias would chase him there as well, and that harmonious face, those eyes as black as the same Abyss that has stolen him away, those just as black hair he has kissed and stroked who knows how much, will be an endless nightmare of lost beauty.

-Whatever else you want to ask of me, the answer will always be no.- he murmurs, eyes fixed to the ground. The colossal shadow of the Executioner moves to his side, his enormous body squishes the lump of blankets. 

-So, you fool of a knight, what were you even expecting to obtain?-

-I don’t know!- Ornstein feels himself falling off, and instinctively he throws himself at Smough. The colossus’ belly shakes as his shoulder bumps onto it, and the thud rips another groan off him.

-I can’t do it, Smough. I see him wherever. I have no hunger, no desire to sleep. I hear his voice, his shadow follows me wherever I go. I can’t. I just wanted it to stop.- 

He opens his eyes as he realizes he’s hugging Smough, cheek smushed on his rough white shirt. He turns back to the ground: he doesn’t want to be mocked. Not all warriors of Lord Gwyn have the sweetness and grace of Artorias – even less Smough. _As if comparing any random fool blocking my path would do me any good. When the Sun has set, no candle can replace it._  

-Smough?- he murmurs. 

-What?-

-Do you think I’m pathetic?-

Smough retreats from his hold, widening his arms. -Pathetic? You? You’ll become sure, asking questions of this type.- 

Ornstein shrugs. He keeps looking downward, tormenting his fingers. 

-I loved him.- is all he can say.

-I know-. Smough opens his palms. -There’s no brick in this damned castle that hasn’t seen your make-outs at least one time.- 

Ornstein sniffs. As if Cannibal Smough would be in any way interested in his lost beloved. He’s amoral, Smough, and it was exactly that to attract Gwyn: not enough to make him into a knight like him and Artorias, but valid enough to have a purpose in his battle lines. Gwyn had always had a special talent in finding a purpose for anyone, even an abomination like Seath and skinny, delicate Gwyndolin. He had given one to Artorias, the same that had taken him away from him, but Ornstein didn’t have the force to hate him anymore. 

When he turns back to Smough, he notices he stares back, and those piggly eyes look cautious, fixated on him with the care of a hard-working guardian.

-Breathe, Ornstein.- he whispers.

-Huh?-

-Breathe. Listen to me. Let out some of that rot that fills you whole.-

Ornstein instinctively opens his hands, feeling like an idiot. He’s not Artorias, he’s not someone that feels love, he will never grab them. And yet Smough does, and his fingers are tender against his wrists. The Dragonslayer’s wrist, by comparison, looks as thin as the shaft of an arrow. Whatever is going on?

He stares at the other’s face, blinking, studying the wide nose and round face and the amber cheeks that appear traced with a compass. And breathe he does, a breath out at every further blink. _Artorias mine, what am I to do? What would you wish me to do?_

Under the panic, he looks at the Executioner. -You know what it is? Losing one you love?-

Smough leans to him. -I don’t love, you yourself have said it. I _appreciate_. Need nothing else. And you know what I’d really, really appreciate?-

His teeth are clenched, his eyes wide. With those puffy cheeks of his, he looks like an ugly child. Ornstein shakes his head no, forcing himself to think. _Why does it hurt so much? He has nothing of him._ He’s Executioner Smough, the man that feeds on the bones of his enemies. He looks like Artorias like a rat looks like a dragon _._  

Smough stares at him, pupils like ember. -I’d appreciate the only one I have left in this boring desert of a city not to leave me alone to twiddle my thumbs.- 

Ornstein tightens his teeth yet more and breathes in and out again, eyes deep into Smough’s. 

-I know it hurts. Believe me, nobody recognizes pain more than I do. I too would give I don’t know what to have that poor madman back. But you can’t keep that pain within forever, Ornstein. Shameful, from your part. You gotta spit it out.-

 _So tremendously weird_. Ornstein barely retreats. -Spit it?-

-Like vomit: two fingers in the throat, some gag attempt, and it’s all out. Or else,you can curl up and hold onto your belly until we’re both skeletons. But I don’t feline spending eternity listening to your whimpers, so I’ll rip it all off you, like it or not.-

-Keep calm. I do want to.- Ornstein forces a smile on. Smough’s hand is still into his, and he holds it: soft it is, but not as delicate as Artorias’. A novelty that, he prays, could make for a source of pleasure. 

-Now listen to me: wash your face, wipe off the snot and put on your armor.- Smough shakes his index like a wet nurse. -Later on I’ll ask the kitchen servants to make something strong for the two of us. I know what it is you need.-

-How do you know that?- Ornstein mumbles. 

-If there’s a thing nobody beats me at, it’s craving things. I have a record I intend to keep, and that I won’t let you grab. You’re bursting of rot, my boy. May Nito snatch me if I don’t rip it off you.- 

Smough stands up, his long round shadow getting yet thinner at every step further away from the window. He walks backwards and keeps looking at him. 

Ornstein leans his feet on the floor and stretches himself up with seemingly titanic struggle. _It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine_. -Artorias won’t ever come back.- he gravely proclaims, throat itching as he pronounces his name. -I want to accept it. I must.- He turns to Smough and to the door. -Can I accept it?-

-What do I know? I have nothing to do with this, you decide.- He stretches himself, arms scraping the ceiling. -Thank me not, Dragonslayer. I’m not that person. You made me sad, all and all. Come on now, we’ll have some fun. We’ll have fun, throw some fists. Here’s a decent way to homage your pretty wolf.- 

-I won’t miss.- 

Ornstein watches his partner leave, sweaty brown hands tight around his nightgown. Yes, it was indeed him who changed his clothes. He wants to be ashamed, but he has no intention of hurting himself further. He runs a hand through his hair, enjoying himself the softness of his natural curls. Artorias had always loved them: he had always loved everything of him, till the last piece. From that moment onward, he’d have taken more care of them.  

The next day, Smough will forget that unique act of kindness. He’ll vanish under the hollow eyes of his cuirasse, drowned out by the stomping of his feet and the rumble of his greathammer. Ornstein doesn’t need to see into the future to know it: they just won’t speak of it, nor try to think back of it. 

But it’s to the living, and he knows it, to keep the memories. 

Ornstein leans from the balcony and sighs, the caress of dusk stroking him as tender as Artorias’ hands. Soon it’ll be nighttime, and a new dawn will come afterwards. The time has come for him to learn to look at it on his own. 


	7. Sisters Of Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rule of Amar, Ivory King of Eleum Loyce, is surrounded by love – the love his people feel for him, the love he gives to his proud beasts, and most of all the one that comes from Alsanna, his sweet and devoted spouse. And when times of loss come, and even he can't face them directly, it's the spouse herself that holds everything under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Lee Yo Won (Alsanna, the Silent Oracle), Adama Dosso (Amar, the Ivory King), and Nell Tipton (Cleric Jarene/White Covetous Demoness).

******Prompt #07:**  Cure

**Definition:** N.2, The work performed by the medic or another person to heal a sick person

**Characters:**  Alsanna, the Silent Oracle, Ivory King

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls II, Kingdom of the Ivory King

**Length:** 3.721 words. 

**Trigger Warning:** blood, hinted at description of labour and childbirth

 

“ _'Cause we're the masters of our own fate_

_We're the captains of our own souls_

_So there's no need for us to hesitate_

_We're all alone, let's take control_ ”

( **Lana del Rey ft. The Weeknd** , _[**Lust For Life**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP4eqhWc7sI)_ )

 

 

-Aren’t they gorgeous, my beloved?-

King Amar has hands so white they almost vanish on the snow-covered armrest of the throne. His nails are wide and flat, as smooth as a slab of ice when Alsanna strokes his fingers, one by one. Despite the temperature, Amar’s skin is warm. She instinctively holds herself tighter to him.

-They’re magnificent.- 

A Loyce Knight tosses a piece of ham the size of a shield into the air. Alsanna sees a pink parabole lowering itself slowly towards the open jaws of the beasts. Krios leaps first, followed by Sennar and Ovanis. Aava follows his siblings, races jamming his claws into the frozen terrain, throws himself forward. He rushes over them in one leap, throwing both Krios and Sennar face first into the dust. In the first days, Alsanna would jump whenever she saw the beats wrestling against one another, tremble for the roars and scratches and the frantic dance of the paws throwing snow and white dust about: now she remains silent, smiling like a child in front of a jester show, as Aava bites on the slab of ham and rips it into slices like a rag.

The applause rises, subdued at first, roaring when Amar himself joins in the clapping. Alsanna applauds with him, hair swinging in the snowy breeze. Aava stretches his head to his owner and bends his shoulders. He looks as if he’s bowing, and he’s so beautiful you’d want to sculpt him. 

-Now, now, Aava.- Amar proclaims. -You’re beautiful and strong, but your siblings also need to eat. Remember Innis is about to give birth: time for you to become a proper father.- 

The smile fades off Alsanna’s face, and her held around Amar’s diamond hand loosens. She hopes he haven’t noticed, but a part of her knows hope is a naivety she’s not afforded. 

 

Amar accompanies her through the throne room and has a Loyce Knight give him his helm. Alsanna’s eyes are fixed on his fingers – strong, and yet so soft at the same time – as he buckles it. She doesn’t get it, and she’s sure she never will. Amar is handsome: eyes as green as fern leaves, who color of a warm yellow that feels like honey next to the pupil. His lips are big, soft, a blush tone that looks painted: but they’re real, as real as she and him are, and Alsanna loves to wrap hers around them when she kisses him. His hair and beard, thick and curly, are copper, and they shine like authentic metal next to his shell-white skin.

-We’re not all so, in my family.- he often proudly proclaims. -Father, General Achman, was as brown as the wood of those walls. Mother, General Nakadria, was yet darker: she had shades of bronze on her skin, and soft curls even grey.-

Amar is albino, alabaster skin shining against the amber hair and beard. The people of Eleum Loyce don’t know it: Amar never takes off his helm, when he shows off to his people. 

-I understand not why you do so.- she whispers. -You’re handsome, my beloved.- 

She wonders what her sisters would think at hearing her pronounce those words. When they had visited Nashandra, some months ago, they had seen her next to a pale, corpulent man, with long brown hair bound in many tiny braids. He was not particularly pretty, and Nashandra’s eyes were as cold as the Eleum Loyce snow as she kissed him.

She had become so beautiful, her sister: blonde hair, pony nose, thin lips and rosy cheeks. And yet, Amar had remained impassive. He had kissed her hand politely, that much so, when the man that accompanied her – _as much a king as Amar, but not quite as charming_ – asked her her name and praised with researched words the raven of her hair. 

Nashandra wouldn’t get it, and neither would Elana and Nadalia. Of the latter, she knows nothing either, and she tries to think not of Elana: Nashandra had spoken of her, when they had met each other. It had been the one time when her smile had trembled. 

-I’ve sent my ward Velstadt to find her.- She had held her hands, eyes blocked open as if some of Alsanna’s own fear had gotten stuck on her. -I will give news of her, I swear.- 

Alsanna hadn’t been surprised, not even when Nashandra’s mouth had tensed back into that fake smile at her husband’s arrival. She understood that much, and she was as grateful as life itself. 

_We’re four chunks of the same creature: we take care of one another_. 

Amar’s beasts roar as he passes them by. Aava stretches his neck and lets the king stroke his big snout. 

-We’re taking a stroll to town. Rise now, my friend.-

The five beasts are strong all the same, but Aava had always been his favorite. It’s not hard to see why: none of the other four has such magnificent fur. _Even white, at the light of Eleum Loyce, acquires different shades_. Krios’ fur is a grayish white, like snow that has been stepped on; Ovanis’ is yellowish, dotted in black circular spots that Alsanna never liked. They feel like eyes, following her wherever she is. _I have enough fear on my own: I need not to feel watched whenever I move_. 

Not even Sennar, tiny, soft-shaped, with bleach light brown fur, she likes that much. It’s Innis, her favorite: as black as obsidian, as soft as a lover’s skin, with a deep slow roar that made her heart tremble whenever she hears it. The beasts barely raises its head, grotesquely inflated belly stretched on the floor. Alsanna catches a glimpse of something moving around under her fur: something tiny, and very lively. 

-Innis looks weird, my beloved. It feels to me as if the moment is about to come.- 

Alsanna climbs atop Aava’s back and holds her ankles tight around the soft warm fur. A Loyce Knight hands her a blue wool cape, hemmed in candid fur. Fox, of course: she’d never ride on Aava’s back wearing the skin of a distant relative of his. She has no idea how the beast would react. She’s way too close to her purpose to die in such a foolish way. If there’s an underworld, my sisters would laugh at me endlessly. 

Amar climbs in front of her as she tightens the sapphire buckle of her cape. -The court medics speak of two twins: her belly has widened greatly.- He lowers his shoulders: he’s smiling, Alsanna knows it even if she can’t see it. 

-We should think of names, now.- 

It takes her a moment to realize Amar is talking about Aava and Innis’ puppies. -Shouldn’t we let the parents choose?- 

A blissful warmth fills Alsanna’s body as Amar chuckles. -Who knows, they could be of more skill than us.- 

He delicately holds her, like one would do to a winter flower. Alsanna shuts her eyes: her stomach is crumbling upon itself, and she doesn’t like it. 

 

Not unlike a snowflake, Amar has many facets to himself: he’s as tall as a rising deer and tender of features, but he dances with all the grace of a dove. Alsanna steps in time at his side, hands tight to his own, eyes fixed into the helm’s empty ones. 

The cymbals tremble, the lutes vibrate, and the voice of Jester Thomas sounds screechy and bright. 

-I sing of Lud and Zallen, warrior queens of Mirrah, born twins from a fallen queen.- 

Amar’s hands hold onto Alsanna’s thighs, spinning her into the air. Her legs pop off her skirt for a moment, and the fresh wind strokes her ripping a cry of pleasure off her. 

-I sing of the sister queens, Lud and Zallen, who climbed over the walls of Jugo as fierce as tigers.-

Now Alsanna’s feet are back on the ground, and Amar’s hand holds onto hers, delicate despite the iron glove. _Sisters_ : Alsanna sighs, hoping he doesn’t notice her. 

Amar is an only child, and he loves hearing Alsanna narrate about her sisters: it’s weird, for her, as there’s not much to say. We’re the remains of a mad Pygmy King, ruined by naive people and a corruptor Serpent. I am his fear, and I fulfill my nature whenever I’m with you, and despite it all I can’t be far away from you. 

And yet, sisterhood was the one thing that had managed to shake onto Nashandra’s soul: whatever had happened to Elana, down in the Sanctum City, must have been tremendous enough to light a small beacon within the damp eyes of the Slave to Desire. 

Thomas’ tiny, piggly eyes shine behind his mask as he sings, open hand leaning in front of herself.

-And poison clawed onto Lud’s arm, it clawed at her with serpent teeth. 

Flames burnt on Zallen’s rapier, and the queen poured a sister’s tears.

And Lud the Fierce was healed,

And though deprived of shield 

Although with one arm less, she fought still without a smear.- 

Alsanna feels Amar’s arm holding onto her, and she quivers as she comes closers to him. Not many kings would tribute such respect to the queen of an enemy city – but Amar isn’t many, and even if she only met one, Alsanna knows her sister’s kings aren’t worthy of him. 

 

Along the way back, Aava is restless. He faintly bucks at every step, roars and grunts for nothing, shakes beneath them as if he had just been tamed. Alsanna doesn’t hold onto his fur just for fear to be unseated: ending up face-first into the snow would be obnoxious enough without the memories of the first time. That was more than fear: it was pure, blind terror, and all she saw was the _white_ , and there weren’t Nashandra and Elana and Alsanna to tell her that she could and would have rose up. There were Aava’s far-off eyes shining like blue flames through the storm, and Amar’s warm vice asking _who are you, My Lady_. And it was then that Alsanna had feared, more than ever, to not be able to make it. 

Not even after so long, Aava still didn’t seem to like her.

-He’s startled, my love.- Amar explains. -The moment is coming, he feels it.-

Alsanna shakes, holding tight at her cape. She likes Innis alright, but giving birth to puppies isn’t something she likes imagining. Whenever she closes her eyes, she sees chunks of Innis taking the shape of tiny hers, each one a feeling she had felt at her supposed death – a tiny feline Alsanna trembling and meowing calling for a help that doesn’t come at her. 

And when the towers of the Eleum Loyce castle appear from beneath the clouds, Alsanna sighs and exhales and Aava’s fur feels as soft as Amar’s face. If only one could cure fear: but nobody can, and Nadalia may not be the only one among them unable to fulfill the will of he who has made them.

Alsanna’s padded boots barely touch the ground, that Aava races to the castle’s staircase. Amar opens his hand towards the runaway beast. He turns to her. -Something happened, Alsanna.- 

And when Amar’s voice shakes, Alsanna too feels herself crumble. She holds tightly at her partner’s hand and forces herself to speak clearly.

-Now, now, my beloved. Let’s go. Innis cannot wait.- 

At the entrance of the palace Krios, Ovanis and Sennar slowly step towards them, bowing heads, shaking paws. It almost feels wrong to see sadness and loss in beasts such as them. The far away, fatigued roars in the background come from Innis: Alsanna can recognize them well, and this is now how it should be. They should be Amar’s own protectors – and hers too, as long as they want to, which she’s not always certain about: this time, however, it’s Amar himself to stand tall as their rampart. _Whatever’s happening, here?_  

Innis is a glistening black mass curled up in the corner of the room, tail slumped on the stones, strained and tired roars making the windows and Alsanna’s heart tremble. On the beast’s side kneels a chubby figure, cloaked in a grayish cassock, chalk hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. 

-What’s happening now, Jarene?-. Amar runs at her, his helm trembling at every step. The cleric turns around, shaking her head. -They’re coming out at the same time. The cubs.-

Blood seeps under the belly of the beast stretched on the floor. Alsanna feels about to faint: yet she stays awake, and has no Amar to lean onto. 

-I am sorry for the floor.- Jarene babbles. -Her waters opened here, there was no way to move her.-

-I care not about the stones, they can be washed.- Amar murmurs. -I wish…-

Innis roars, a sound so loud it lifts Alsanna and Jarene’s hair. She has never heard anything, either beast or man, producing such a noise. It’d terrorize a dragon. _Father, help_.

-She is in pain.- Amar’s voice is stentorian. -Do something to stop it.- 

-There’s nothing to be done.- Jarene pants. -If I put her to sleep, she’d never wake up.- 

Amar raises his face to the ceiling. -Innis.- he murmurs. Alsanna sees him turn around and walk off, slowly, and vanish through the door. Krios roars, and it sounds sad. 

She has no air, the room spins, some Loyce Knights stare at her wordlessly. He is gone. Alsanna moves to the wall and leans upon it. _Help, Father, help_. Amar, the Ivory King, has given up a battle: nothing is the way it should be, and Innis is dying of childbirth, and Aava is watching – he doesn’t like her, she knows it all too well, and Amar is not there with there. _Help, Father, do something, cure her, please, cure her_. 

So absurd, so wrong. She really is praying at the Father of the Abyss for a dying tiger. She has done some foolish things, Alsanna, because when you are afraid, when you yourself _are_ fear, it’s destined to happen at some point, but that one is above them all. 

If only Amar was there: but he has ran off, and she does not dare to run after him. Again, fear is in charge. And it’ll always be, no point in fooling oneself. At least, Innis will die brave. 

She turns back to the room, in the corner the furthest possible away from Innis and Jarene: the corner where Aava has curled up into, his head under his paws. She wants to tell him she's sorry, but she can’t step forward. Aava is so huge, even in pain. Even Ovanis, by his side, merely looks like a very large kitten. She watches Krios and Sennar walking towards him, purring, laying down next to their eldest brother. 

Alsanna takes her hands to her mouth. Has she really thought it? Brother? 

She suddenly feels incredibly stupid – and one moment later it all feels clear, suddenly, like a band-aid being ripped from a wound. It may hurt, but it’s needed for the healing. 

Amar has left the room, and how could she blame him for it? It’s the beasts themselves, his siblings: she can finally see it, and wants to applaude at herself like Nashandra, Elana and Nadalia would do. 

She turns back to Jarene, kneeling at Innis’ side, motionless. The cleric too has noticed her; when she turns her head, strands of hair escaped from the ponytail are stuck to her forehead, and she tries to free herself by bobbing her head from one side to the other. 

-Leave it, I’ll handle it.- Alsanna moves her hands atop the cleric’s forehead and frees her face from the chunks of loose hair. Jarene sighs in relief.-My thanks. You are close to His Majesty. Tell me what to do, please. He trusts you, does he not?- 

A reinvigorating speech if there ever was one: reminds her she’s close to the Ivory King, that she herself has a power and something may be done. -Leave her awake.- she says. Her voice trembles a bit, but Jarene nods, gritting her teeth. 

-She will be in pain, are you aware?-

-Matters not. As long as she lives. Can anything be done for the cubs, too?-

-Maybe.- Jarene pants. -A prayer, maybe… His Majesty deserves no pains.- 

Alsanna looks at Innis’ half-open eyes, a purple that looks as if it’s pulsating of its own energy. Father had eyes like those– but they were red, glowing of the same fear that fills her. The difference was that fear was not alone: and neither is Innis, with her siblings and Amar and maybe her too.

She wants to be there. It’s fair. 

Fear vibrates within her like a flame struggling in the breeze, she feels her fingers quivering and her legs losing blood within their veins. But nothing’s born for nothing after all. Desire pushes one to improve their conditions, wrath to fight for what we see as important, solitude to search for the help and company of others. _What about fear?_ Fear nourishes courage, like oil does to a flame. 

She looks at Innis’ eyes, lilac, magnificent, and convinces herself that sometimes, to work, a cure must sting a bit. 

The cleric looks at her with eyes beaming with trust. Alsanna kneels by her side. 

-Let us pray together. Each their own God: Innis deserves it. His Majesty deserves it.-

_Amar, his name is Amar_. Alsanna shuts her eyes, Innis’ raspy breath shaking her hair. Fear nourishes courage. _Here I am, Father. I’m afraid and solitary and yearning and wrathful, just like you once were: but I know of love, and of gratitude, and of sisterhood. Cure this beast, if you can, and watch over her brood: or if you cannot, grant me your willpower, to sweeten the pain of my lifetime mate_. 

Tears run down her cheeks, and she tastes their saltiness to the brim. A hand places itself on her shoulder: even without turning around, she already knows who that is. 

-Thank you.- Amar says. -Thank you, Alsanna.- His voice cracks under his helm, but the hold if his hand is strong and familiar. And she too, a bit at least, feels cured. 

 

Jarene folds the bloodied gloves and smiles, her soft cheeks all reddened. Her hair have fallen back on her forehead, and again Alsanna fixes them, smiling. Amar kneels next to Innis and strokes her forehead fatherly. The cubs, curled up under her belly, feed themselves greedy and meowing. 

-I do not know how to thank you, My Lady.- Amar turns back and fits his helm straight atop his head. -You saved all three of them. And I am regretful too for having left you alone: emotions took over me. It won’t happen again.-

-Worry not, Your Majesty.- Jarene smiles. -The Queen has assisted me just as worthily.- 

Amar holds onto Alsanna’s wrist.-Thank you, again. You’ve been so brave.- And she blushes, but still holds onto Amar’s own hand.-

-Innis had an internal wound, but I managed to heal it. It can happen, with twins.- 

Amar nods. -Ask me something, anything, and I’ll grant it to you.-

Jarene kneels: her white cassock has a lilac hem, a pretty addition. Her voice trembles as she speaks. 

-I want to fight for you, Your Majesty. Allow me to train for you. I ask of nothing more.-

An out of shape cleric, not very young: doesn’t seem suited as a Loyce knight. But Amar is kind, and way too happy: he’ll accept, Alsanna knows it well. In the past, he had done far more thoughtless things. 

-Then so it is.- Amar proclaims. -Rise, Lady Jarene. Tomorrow, we’ll proceed with the ring ceremony.- 

-You need rest.- Alsanna says. -You already know where to move, My Lady?-

-Yes, Your Graces. Again, I do not know how to thank you. I wish you all the luck.-

Jarene runs off, sandals snapping on the marble. Amar turns his helm towards Alsanna. 

They’re as big as cats, and both as black as their own mother. Their eyes are half-open, and they move slowly, drowsily, but a red beam of life shines in the thin space between their eyelids.

-Twin girls: my compliments, Innis.- The tiger raises his head, and fatigue and gratitude shine in her violet eyes. 

-Twin girls, like the queens of Mirrah.-

Amar turns around at Alsanna’s words. -The warrior queens, Lud and Zallen?-

Alsanna nods: no, fear will no longer overtake her. Amar is there, his hands still shaking from the tension, and he deserves respect.

-They could be their names. What do you think, my love? Lud and Zallen?-

-Lud and Zallen.- Amar repeats. He raises his head, and she can see him beaming even with the helm on. -I love those. Thank you, Alsanna. It’s a great idea. Lud and Zallen, Aava, my friend. What do you think?-

Aava licks Amar’s hand; he looks at Alsanna, motionless and pretty. _Who knows if Knight Artorias, who came to kill my father centuries ago, had such a bond with his great grey wolf Sif_. But Artorias is dead, now, and so is her father: Amar is however living, breathing, there and happy. 

-Two girls.- he exhales. -Hold one, Alsanna. They’re so soft.- 

Alsanna’s arms tremble, eyes almost painfully blocked open. Yet she takes the closer cub. The creature meows faintly from the mouth dripping in milk: tiny, soft, warm, _alive_.

Innis softly roars, Aava takes one step forward. Alsanna holds the newborn cub closer. 

-Sit, Aava.- Amar sweetly orders. -Alsanna only wants to know them. She’s not taking them anywhere from you.- 

Alsanna shakes her head no. She places the tiny feline on the ground, next to the mother’s paws. _Was it Lud or Zallen, I just held?_  

They drag around on slow, short, clumsy paws. Amar moves backwards to let Aava pass.

-We’ll take care of you.- Alsanna says. -This is my oath.-

Amar holds her hand, holds it to himself. Aava licks Innis’ head, the cubs lean towards the tiger’s soft belly. Alsanna can feel their warmth in her open hand still.

And she looks at Amar, the face sculpted in the helm as impassible as ever, for he still hasn’t understood who she was talking about. 


	8. Placated Screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aldrich, Devourer of Gods, has conquered Anor Londo, and is preparing himself for the feast of a lifetime. Rosaria, bastard daughter of the late Queen Gwynevere, is to be the first course. But a secret from the past comes up, and not even the sadistic Saint of the Deep can do anything against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Sibel Kekilli (Rosaria, Mother of Rebirth), Richard Armitage (Pontiff Sulyvahn), Elly Jackson (Dark Sun Gwyndolin) and Faran Tahir (Archdeacon Klimt).

******Prompt #08:**  Outburst

**Definition:**  N.1, Manifesting with acts or words feelings or states of self previously repressed or controlled 

**Characters:** Rosaria, Mother of Rebirth, Aldrich, Devourer of Gods

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls III, Conquer of Anor Londo

**Length:** 3.854 words. 

**Trigger Warning:** blood,body horror, broken bones, eldritch horror, mentioned and described cannibalism, physical mutilation

 

“ _I can't hear you_

_No, I don't need even know you_

_Door shut, case closed_ ”

( **Celine Dion** , [**_Save Your Sou_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI4Yw7cpyhk&frags=pl%2Cwn)[ ** _l_**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI4Yw7cpyhk&frags=pl%2Cwn))

 

 

Blood drips cold, there, where the days spent in chains have carved her skin, and leaves a ticklish sensation on the bare skin of her arms. 

-Kneel!- Pontiff Sulyvahn orders, and Rosaria falls to her knees sweetly, as worthy of a princess of Anor Londo. By her side, Gwyndolin’s pale body looks like a withered flower, bent forward, stars of blood all over their white tunic, unkept hair under the sun-shaped crown. -Kneel to the Saint of the Deep!- 

-Cut it off, Sulyvahn. I’m starving, feed me already! The one with the hammer was all fat and had no flavor.-

Aldrich’ voice sounds as if it's coming from a cavern at the bottom of the ocean – that same Ocean that, in his prophecies, will submerge the entire world; and Aldrich himself, shapeless, grey, translucent, so tall it barely has room to sit straight in the middle of the columns of the Princess’Anteroom, gurgles and churns like a cloak of water. Rosaria has to call upon all her bravery to look at him. _If I keep staring I will get used to him, and that horrible Pontiff will have nothing to chew on_. She has never been interested in the art of the duel – what purpose did it have, in Anor Londo? Much more convenient to leave others to fight for you – but in that moment she’d give an arm for a blade and the skill to use it. 

-My sister is dead.- Gwyndolin pants, wiping blood off their mouth. _My mother, my mother has stabbed herself_ : thinking only hurts more, and Rosaria has no intention of suffering unless necessary. -Yorshka is thy captive. Sir Smough is dead. What else cravest thou, now?-

Aldrich bobs his head – he has a head indeed, that looks sculpted in black wax and left melting in the sun of midday. His eyes are glassy balls, his smile a knife cut from which tens of overlaying squarest bulge, his hair as black and thick as the ropes of a whip. -All. We want it all. And if I want to, I will eat the whole city.-

-And so it is.- Sulyvahn adds. -I will fulfill my promise, Aldrich. Aren’t these two for you?-

For you? Rosaria glances at Gwyndolin, but the tween keeps their eyes on the creature without a blink. 

-You promised me a six-course meal! Six!- The creature’s gigantic slimy hand clenches into a fist. -You’re a liar, Sulyvahn! Are you playing games with me? Where did the brown haired child go, for instance? What of the woman?-

-The child of dragons is mine.- the other mutters. -I have plans involving her, not concerning you or anyone else. As for Lady Gwynevere, she took her own life; unless you’re interested in her corpse, she’s of no use.- 

-Plans, with the child?- A throaty guffaw makes the black jelly vibrate. -I should have known. It’s her father, you’ve always craved him, everybody knows it. That stupid crush of yours has softened you up.-

-Quiet!- Sulyvahn roars. -Don’t mention him, not in my presence.- 

_He thinks she’s stillborn_ , Gwynevere had said the evening she had brought her in. She was but a baby, back then, and she had enjoyed cradling her at least for a bit. Her father believes she’s dead: but she’s alive, and she’ll remain for long. Yorshka’s father – so they all call her, but her real name is another, and Rosaria knows it because she can eavesdrop – has gone insane a long time ago, but Rosaria would prefer that to having no father at all. It’s all like falling into a bottomless abyss, enough vertigo to suffocate even fear, and having nothing to cling to: Yorshka has the blue eyes of a king, and for that, she’ll live. 

-I don’t want the dead one anyway. I can’t digest corpses.- Aldrich mumbles. -Alive, I want them alive. Do you really have nothing for me? Wasn’t there another bastard of Gwynevere? The other dragon girl, give me her.- 

Sulyvahn staggers back. He seems to quiver, a moment that Rosaria savors like nectar.

-We don’t have her. And neither will you: learn to live with this certainty. Go yourself to the Painted World of Ariandel, if so you want to: you won’t ask this to me.- 

-I’m hungry, Sulyvahn!- Aldrich thunders. -You’re a cheater, a liar! Give me someone, anyone.- The creature’s spheric, winded eyes stare around the room, the slimy body trembles and wavers. -Give me this one. Bastard, black hair. I want to eat her whole face up, Sulyvahn.-

All the air leaves Rosaria’s lung in one blow. Gwyndolin holds her right hand rightly, with fingers as tiny as a child’s. 

The Pontiff opens his wings and glides towards her. Rosaria staggers back, tears clouding her vision: it’s as if the branches on Sulyvahn’s mask are wrapping around her own face, choking her, blinding her.

-Your Eminence, reflect upon this.- Rosaria whispers.

-Thou’rt a monster!- Gwyndolin roars. Bouts of cough bend them over, another bloodstain comes to join the previous ones. -Thou’rt killed my sister: staineth not her memory by stealing away her first daughter too!-

The Pontiff grabs onto Rosaria’s wrist and rips her away from Gwyndolin’s hold. He clenches his arms around her chest, her elbows smushed against her bust. -She’ll be alright. She’s yours, Aldrich. Taste her as you please.-

Rosaria pushes her talon on the Pontiff’s bare foot, but his hold gets stronger yet. Something snaps inside her chest, a spark of pain explodes within her chest. She emits a desperate cry as Sulyvahn flies off towards Aldrich’s head, lets her fall into his open hands: hot, sticky, viscous, and tears slip on the soft consistence and slide far away.She can’t even scream anymore.

-Fluffy.- Aldrich sighs. -Pretty, dark. What a sweet meal!- 

Rosaria’s chest burns at every breath – something broke there, curse that Pontiff – and the slime wraps around her, boiling, heavy, reek of corpses from every square inch. She shuts her eyes and covers her ears. Aldrich’s churning, Gwyndolin’s cries, the flapping of Pontiff Sulyvahn’s wings, she soon can hear no more. _Quickly, please. Be quick, I don’t want to, I don’t want to_. Smough is dead, and her mother before him, and the chunks of her family lay as scattered and disconnected as shards of glass. She had had a child of her own, whom she had left to the Deacons by Farron for fostering, as her own mother Gwynevere had done to her – it wasn’t fair, it wouldn’t have been, some people can’t and shouldn’t be raising children, and pretending otherwise would only cause more pain. She tightens her eyes and clenches her fists, Aldrich’s hot breath shaking her hair and choking her. 

She feels herself being dragged lower, and placed on the ground on some tiles. She opens her eyes: Aldrich stares at her, open hands, bulbous eyes open in bewilderment. The Pontiff lands behind her and grabs her by the hair, ripping a scream off her. It hurts so much. 

-What are you waiting for, Aldrich? You don’t like her? You’ve eaten girls for years, what does this one have that sets her apart?-

Aldrich shakes his head, and Rosaria sees he’s terrified.

-Not this one, Pontiff. Not her.-

-She’s a bastard of that Gwynevere like them all.- Sulyvahn puffs. -She won’t ruin your palate.- 

Aldrich trembles, like a dying man giving his last spasms.

-I won’t eat my own mother.- 

 

Rosaria crawls backwards, chest burning, hair painfully strained in Sulyvahn’s granitic hold. She runs her eyes all over Sulyvahn’s massive form, the flabby folds of his flaccid grey body, the crooked cut-out smile on the huge round head, thick rigid hair tangled with the bones bursting from every corner of his form. 

_That thing is my son_. She stays seated with open legs, trembling, craving Gwyndolin’s hand, or her mother’s, or anyone else’s, anyone who could tell her why. Her arms shake in chills and hold onto her pained chest. _The Deacons, it must have been the Deacons_. Buy how could she ever come to know…

-You are.- she can barely whisper, and the eyes on Sulyvahn’s neck feel like they’re cutting through her skull. -,the child I gave to the Deacons?-

The Pontiff lets go of her hair and walks around her, stopping only at her front. -Could it be? More bastards on this side of the family? And when would what you are saying have taken place?-

Rosaria forces herself into slow breathing. She’s a daughter of Gwynevere, and she’ll honor her as such. She has no unfinished business with her far gone mother – not more than Aldrich, were those horrendous words true, would have towards her – but the Sun is also far off, and yet it keeps all things of life together. 

-Many years ago, Your Eminence.- The black stones at his neck make her heart shake, but they’re still a more pleasant sight than the being of black slime. -I remember Royce had blonde hair back then. I gave him two rings, so that he could provide to the child accordingly.-

-Describe me those rings.- Aldrich orders.

-A round ruby. And a- Rosaria gulps, she remembers so well, -an oval sapphire.-

Aldrich opens his round eyes agape and brings his hands to his face. -My rings! It’s her, it’s her, I felt her mind just right! I have a mother, Sulyvahn! I feel the thoughts of my future meals, and she thought of me!-

-The Devourer of Gods has a mother.- Sulyvahn’s hands tremble. -We noticed just in time.-

Aldrich’s shadow rises above them all – colossal, flabby, with a lipless smile – and Rosaria wonders if being devoured would be any sweeter than that.

-Then, what do I eat?- Aldrich howls. -I want to eat a God! Only one, damn it! What have I even come here for?- 

The Pontiff walks towards Gwyndolin, and Rosaria feels herself fading again.

-No! Not them!- She stretches an arm forward, the broken rib quivers and burns under her breasts, _if what he says is true I might as well try._ -Don’t eat them, my child!- Words come out with titanic fatigue. -Child dearest, don’t! Let them go!-

-But I want them! I want to eat them. Let me take them, Sulyvahn!- Aldrich shakes his huge fists. -A God all for me. I bet they’re as sweet as honey!-

-Son of mine!-Rosaria staggers up, her rib screaming in her chest. -Don’t eat them. Please! Do it for me!-

Sulyvahn grabs her by the arm and tosses her back to the floor. Rosaria feels a stinger piercing through her chest from the inside as she slams against the tiles. Sulyvahn’s foot pushes against her back, soft and strong.

-All for you, Aldrich. The Dark Sun is here for you to be sated.-

Aldrich chuckles and claps, and the windows quiver like under the blow of iron maces. -Mine, mine! Take my mother away, I’ll talk to her later on.- 

Sulyvahn raises his foot and flies off back to Gwyndolin. -No! Don't do this! _Son, dearest son_!- Two Deacons grab Rosaria by the shoulders and help her up; the broke rips knocks inside her chest like a needle, and she feels about to throw up. -Gwyndolin!- she cries. -I’m sorry, auncle. I’m sorry.- 

Gwyndolin shakes their head no. They're smiling. -’Tis alright. I am not scared. I shall tell thine mother to take care.-

Pontiff Sulyvahn lands next to the Darkmoon, wings cloaking them like an additional set of jaws. The Deacons hold Rosaria tight, her chest burns, the door is closer and closer and the corridor behind it looks darker and more rotten than her son’s mouth. -My son! Dear child, please!-

Gwyndolin leans forward and spits on the floor. 

-Sweet is the hand of Nito, Gravelord and First of the Dead.- -Yet cruel is his justice towards those who tamper with the order of things. Devoureth me, if so pleases thee: but thy words, shan’t be the last.- 

-Let them go!- Rosaria struggles, but the hands of the Deacons are as strong as clamps. -Let them go! Curse you! Curse you all!- 

The door slams behind her, but Gwyndolin’s tortured cries sound loud and clear. 

 

That night, the moon doesn’t come up. It’s as if the sky itself has donned a mourning gown for the end of Anor Londo.

Rosaria follows the path of the constellations with her eyes while the twilight still reverberates; when the darkness falls, every star reminds her of the little bones bursting white and smooth on Aldrich’s flabby body. She turns back, and turns to the bed at the opposite corner. Her legs are so weak she has to slither like a snail. The pain is barely a nuisance: she can’t feel anything, not even tears. That’s better. She has to stay focused, she who at least can. A Bountiful Sunlight was enough to placate the pain of the ribs, but even that’s not enough to go further. 

She lays down to sleep, but those whitish forms follow her even behind the walls. _That thing is my son_ : he was a baby like all others, soft and wide-eyed, and she hadn’t given him away lightheartedly. Gwyndolin is in a better place, now; two of those stars could have been their eyes, sad and discontent, and still pained for her. Gwynevere, surely, is with them – and it’s now, more than ever, that Rosaria feels terror digging under her skin. 

-What am I to do, Mother?- she whispers to the stones. -That _thing_ is mine.-

She throws away her blankets and closes her eyes, letting the cold dampen what remains of her senses. 

 

When Archdeacon Klimt knocks at the door of her cell, the day has long risen, and even the sun looks small and dry, as if Aldrich had been able to chew on it as well. The religious man bows to Rosaria as he lets her proceed in front of himself. 

-Are you the mother of the Saint of the Deep? Allow me to display you my gratitude.- 

-Display it in silence.- Rosaria answers. -What does that thing even want of me?-

-Now, now. It’s no way to speak to the blood of your own blood.- Klimt grabs her by the arm, and Rosaria retreats. -You are a lucky one, he has no intention to eat you.-

_As if that was of any help_. Rosaria is still cold: Anor Londo isn’t mean to be sunless, and Aldrich's sickly, fleshy heat has nothing of the splendor of the City of Gods that has sen her grow up. It’s all different, now: the kind of difference that _hurts_. 

Aldrich smiles as she comes in: he ostentatiously rubs a hand on is belly, lipless mouth contorted in the familiar crooked grin. -Hello, Mother.- he says, and Rosaria wishes for a chance to squish him under her foot like one would do with a worm. 

-You ate them.- she says. Klimt holds her by the wrist from behind: somehow, Aldrich isn’t the biggest of dangers. 

-So what? That’s what I’m here for. They were so tasty, too.- 

Rosaria shuts her eyes, reopens them, rubs her hand on her cold wrist. It _hurts_ too much even for crying. -Why are you even doing this?- 

Aldrich lowers his hand and curls op on himself like a larve. His head, round and flat, is the size of a lunch table, his eyes as big as jugs. He reclines his head on the floor, right in front of Rosaria; his thick dark hair brush the floor and scratch her feet.

_Gwynevere, dearest mother, help me stand on my feet_. And Gwynevere seems to hear her, because Rosaria doesn't avert her eyes from the horror she unwillingly created.

-Have you no ambition?- Aldrich asks. -I find out I have a mother, and she doesn’t understand anything. This is just not fair.-

Rosaria pushes her soles against the sandals, stretching her hand towards the fiend’s face. -I see you’re insane. It’s mostly sad, you being this way. What are you doing at all, Aldrich? Is there something you want to let out?-

-Everyone is so sensible, in this city. I’m happy and sated. What could there even be to let out?-

-You want to make me believe you kill in could blood, for pure pleasure?-

-I’m a good lad, I tell the truth. Can I have a cookie, now?-

What kind of beings could raise such a man? If man he can be called, and Rosaria isn’t very certain about it anymore. -At least reflect, dear child. I’m sure something can still be done to stop this slaughter. I want to know why. Why?-  

Aldrich stares into the void with his hideous bulbous eyes, hands pressing again onto the stomach. Something – _someone_ – gurgles behind the fingers, the flabby skin recomposing to form a face. Eyes agape, lips open in a voiceless scream. _They could be anybody_ : another sweet, pleasant lie. 

-I could make you content if you want to, Mother. I’m having an outburst alright. Want to know what it’s about?- 

Rosaria takes a step backwards. She doesn’t like it, it’s not how it was supposed to go. She feels her skin trembling, shaken by a sense of danger. She stretches her back and stares into Aldrich’s ugly round eyes. 

-Then tell me. What are you letting out with that cannibalism of yours?-

Aldrich opens his hands and conjoins his fingers, forming a stool of rotten flesh. Archdeacon Klimt lets go of her wrist, and Rosaria slowly walks towards the being she has created. She chills as the silk of her dress gets humid, sitting on the macabre bench. Aldrich is warm alright, but of a choking, festering warmth; soft, but a pillow too can be used to take someone’s life. 

Aldrich raises her up to his face and watches her with a curious look. For a moment, those huge eyes do look like those of a child. 

-Power, Mother.- he says. -Such is my outbursts: filling myself with pleasure. What I lack.- 

-You were a powerful deacon.- Rosaria says. -Why go this route?-

-The world is bursting with powerful deacons. But one like me: a lack that deserved to be filled. A void. Can’t I let it out my own way?-

Aldrich’s belly pulsates again, and this time Rosaria knows it’s real. Gwyndolin: two hands pressing against the flabby walls that enclose them, eyes that move, look at her and know. 

-Auncle.- Rosaria whispers. -Dearest, I’m right here.- 

Other pairs of hands wrap around Gwyndolin’s, so tiny they make the youth’s look big. Two truly big, callous ones follow suite – _my poor Smough, why are you there while I’m here?_ – and tens more, and army of prisoners twisting in a hell of blood and bone. 

Rosaria holds onto the flesh not to fall down. 

-I can hear them _scream_. Please, dearest son. Put me down.- 

Aldrich raises her up, smiling of bliss. -Fear not. I can protect you from those.-

Rosaria holds her toes onto the sandals. -The Executioner was your father. Why was he not spared?-

-I didn’t notice it.- Aldrich answers, pouting two appendixes that look like lips. -It appears he didn’t think of me, and I did not hear him. You did good, at making yourself heard. Much more than him, and I’d never want an idiot as a father anyway. He ate them dead, see? What a wreck. I should have had him try one of the rings you gave me. I charmed them, you see: now the wearer can enjoy for a bit the screams of their meals. Nice, is it not?- 

_He cares for nothing and no one at all: he saved me out of a mere whim_. She expects herself to faint, yell, tremble, but no such thing happens. She suddenly feels lighter, as if nothing in that accursed room had value anymore. The child did escape her womb, but that wasn’t _Aldrich_. And Rosaria smiles: the Devourer of Gods never was truly _hers_. Flesh comes from her, but Aldrich is the work of the Deacons. And as such, she can hate him with no regret. 

-Maybe there’s the love of a son within you, my dear. Knowing nothing about what you are comes from me: oh, Aldrich. You don’t know how much it consoles me.-

Aldrich places her on the ground: Rosaria leaps down like a child jumping off a carriage and stares at the terror in that thing’s eyes with utmost joy.

-You know, mother? It appears to me you did understand something. So, will you let me have my outbursts?-

Rosaria stares down at him. The biggest weight has been lifted, and it’s not death. 

-Who am I, to deny you a favor?-

_The creature bends over and wraps his hands around her head. Come, come. I’m not running away this time. Now I know who you are._

Aldrich’s hands sneak into her mouth, thick, swollen. _He wants to choke me_ , and she readily shuts her eyes. But the slime doesn’t dive down into her throat – it stops by the gag reflex, fills her cheeks, accumulates itself under her tongue. And it’s right there, where the tongue connects itself to the palate, that something burns – a flicker of painful, red heat.

Rosaria screams into the slime and watches it retreat and conjoin itself back with Aldrich’s mass. Something flat and red lays on the black flesh. Rosaria spits a mouthful of blood on the floor, choking upon it, panting in search of air. Her legs tremble, the floor tiles quiver and splash in red. But she looks back into his eyes, as his huge hands give the chopped-off tongue to Archdeacon Klimt, who wraps it into a white cloth and tucks it into a pocket on his alb. She stares at his child, an explosion of blood in her mouth, on her chin and all over her black silk dress – a stare that grabs onto her head with an iron fist, as if looking at him could destroy the horror he is in a single blow. As if two new tongues had bloomed into her eyes: tongue of iron too, ready to cut and pierce. 

Aldrich turns to the ceiling. Two light, tired eyes, seem to flash inside his putrid belly. _Farewell, auncle Gwyndolin. Farewell, Sir Smough. Have a good rest_. 

-I let it out, Mother.- Aldrich says. -Are you content?-

Rosaria spits out more blood and nods her head yes. Archdeacon Klimt rushes to her, taking off  his stole and handing it to her. As she wipes her face with it, blood seeping from her palate, into her throat and out of her mouth still, his eyes burst of reverence. As much a ruffian as them all: after all, licking feet is better than devouring whole bodies. 

-You can go, now.- Aldrich proclaims. -You can’t stay here, so my friend Klimt will escort you to our old Cathedral. Maybe I could visit you too. Can’t deny myself some family time.-

_I’ll wait for you, alright_ , Rosaria thinks, _but I won’t be on my own_.


	9. Accepting Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Gwyn, king of Great Londo, has indefinitely banished his firstborn son. As anger and grief churn within him, the Goddess of Sin herself meets him in his palace, with an unexpected request that may open up a way for him to deal with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Mads Mikkelsen (Lord Gwyn),Eva Green (Velka, Goddess of Sin) and Caitlyn Stasey (young Gwynevere)

**Prompt #09:**  Flame

 **Definition:**  N.1, Source of heat or light originated by the combustion of a solid, liquid or gaseous substance and constituted of incandescent gaseous masses.

 **Characters:** Gwyn, Lord of Cinder; Velka, Goddess of Sin

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, Exile of the Nameless King

 **Length:** 3.852 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** detailed description of fire

 

> “ _The ground beneath my feet's getting warmer_
> 
> _Lucifer is near_
> 
> _Holding on, but I'm getting weaker_
> 
> _Watch me disappear_ ”
> 
> ( **Madonna** ,[ ** _Devil Pray_**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Yx-E-xG4kU)) 

 

Someone knocks at the door: the fifth, in the last hour. 

-My Lord?- a raucous voice calls. -Thou feelst alright?-

A Silver Knight, Gwyn knows it already without any need to check. They come like ants to an anthill, carefully calling his name. Their voices tremble, their tones are uncertain, and he hates it more than ever. 

-I said plenty of times I wish to be left alone.- he says. -Why dost thou keep knocking?- 

The clapping of clumsy steps, behind the door. _I startled them, ’tis no good, but ’tis also not my fault if they can’t see how things are right now_. -I beg for thine forgiveness. General Ornstein was worried about thine conditions, ’twas him who sent me.- 

-If Ornstein wants to know of my conditions, he himself is to come tell me. Hast thou not a patrol post?- 

It is indeed the proper time to get up. The tearful story of a king shutting himself off into his rooms, overtaken by grief: Great Londo deserves none of that. What’s done is done. An incision in stone can’t be mended, not even with the finest seals. 

-I beg for forgiveness, My Lord.- the Knight repeats. _A young recruit, probably: a more seasoned warrior would already know that I can’t stand being overwhelmed with apologies_. Gwyn raises his head to the door. 

-Thou’rt forgiven. Now begone, and tell that accursed Ornstein to send no one else.- 

The steps move further from him, and a cold breeze barely moves Gwyn’s grey hair. _The first colds are coming: the windows must be closed, and the chimneys filled with wood_. The sun is bile-yellow ball, with trembling borders against a fiery orange sky, surrounded by clouds that look like brushstrokes of dark, greasy blood. The wind blows, the trees dance in the twilight, and a young man that looks like him advances further away from Anor Londo, without a home and without a name. 

 

When he does open the door, a new Silver Knight awaits in posture against the corridor wall. Gwyn sighs. -I have told Ornstein that…-

-’Tis not General Ornstein that sends me.- the knight answers: or knightess, more aptly, young as well. -Lady Fina wishes to confer with thee as soon as possible.-

Gwyn shuts his eyes, opens them again, stares at the ephebic shape of the speaker.

-Tell mine wife that I cannot reach to her, nor to the girls. I need to reflect, on my own.- 

The knightess tilts her head, scratching at its back under the silver helm. She has black hair, as wavy and flowing as Filianore’s. Wasn’t it for the voice, so different from the child’s deep-leaning tones, so out of key for her age, he’d not be surprised if it was her indeed, with an armor stolen from one of his men. He feels like a food for having had such a thought: the day isn’t suited for jokes. 

-I see.- the girls says. -Even to a God, it can happen to sin, is it not? And ’tis indeed something to reflect upon.- 

For a moment, the innocence of that response rips a tired smile off Gwyn’s lips. HIs eyes follow the girl’s shape, the hands covered by metallic gloves, and those hair as black as human pupils, glistening, sinuous. He leaps back, hand snapping to a belt from which no sword hangs. 

 _Sin, she said: fool, fool, I should have noticed_. -I have recognized you. Take off that helm, Velka. It makes no sense to proceed further with this pantomime.-

-I don’t know if I want to. You talk to me much more willingly with this on, or am I wrong?-

Her voice, as thin as the chirping of a blackbird, pierces through Gwyn’s eardrums like a needle. The ruler takes one step backwards, bracelets ringing at his wrists. -I do not feel like being mocked. Please, back off, or I won’t be as courteous at the next order.- 

The goddess’ hands, white, as thin as the tips of a scythe, remove the helm off her head: a raven stream flows soft on a sharp face, where eyes so blue they look painted stare at him with familiar condescendence. Gwyn walks to her until he faces her, towering over her with his shoulders. 

-I fear there’s no point in insisting.- 

-You fear well.- Velka is calm, her violet lips form a barely hinted curve. -I expected better from you, Gwyn. I thought of you as more capable of judging people.-

Gwyn clenches his teeth: he already knows where she’s going. _Finias, his name was Finias, but I too will forget it eventually. He was a vivacious child, with hair dappled with sun, a boy that held spears taller than himself, and a man strong enough to knock down a wyvern in a single cleave. Queen of Blood Meleys, she wad called, and when she fell dead, the chopped off arm of one of my knights dangled from her jaw_. She was azure, like Velka’s eyes: the more he looks at her, the more Gwyn feels himself tremble. 

He stretches his back, clenches his mouth shut: he will need a face of stone, like that he had when he condemned his child to eternal exile. Velka can’t be any worse than that. 

-I know you. You want to ask me something.-

-Exactly.- Velka pulls her hair out of her amor and uncovers her ears. -Your firstborn gave me a beautiful idea.-

Gwyn hesitates, hand clenched into a fist. He doesn’t have his sword with him, but Velka is no warrior. Fina was – _she welded those shotels like a pair of wings, and when she cut the throat of Bronze Fury Vermithor above Darkroot Forest, even that hotheaded Artorias knelt to her agility_ – but her sisters always preferred other skills. A warrior in Fina, a cleric in shy Caitha, and a scholar in Velka: the perfect dream of every family. 

-What idea did that degenerate Fi… son of mine give you?- 

Velka smiles with fake tenderness: -What if I too left Great Londo? Forever. Come on, Gwyn. Let’s think about it.-

She’s lying. She would. Sinners can be smart. And yet, Gwyn clings to that certainty like sailors do to nightly stars. -Why would you?-

-I don’t know- Velka folds her head to the side. -To change places, maybe. Find a place where my skills can be appreciated.- 

-Such sublime skills indeed: deceit, whispering, pushing people to perdition.- Gwyn glances behind the petite goddess, along the corridor, towards the closed doors of the rooms of his _three_ children. 

-Better than having no skills whatsoever, is it not? Listen to me, Gwyn. I don’t like Great Londo anymore. I too want to leave. If a creature as delicate as my sister Caitha can travel up to Catarina, who keeps me from roaming the lands in search of fortune?-

-Then begone.- Gwyn says. -You’re not a child of mine, are you? You never obeyed a single one of my commands: why start now?-

Velka shrugs. -Because beforehand, I want to ask a favor of you.- 

 _I knew it_. Gwyn steps forward, his shoulders wide above the tiny Goddess of Skin. Velka shuts her eyes and reopens them: two glass pearls, opaque, so far from the sweetness of her nieces’. _Gwynevere didn’t weep: not in front of me, at least_. Motionless, clenched lips, still red eyes following the faraway flight of a swarm of Winged Demons. She held both her little sisters to herself, stroking Gwyndolin’s hair, wiping the tears off the face of Filianore, back as straight as the blade of a sword. _Now she’s my firstborn_.

-What is it you want then?- Gwyn grunts. -Jewelry? Knowledge? What else do you want?-

Velka laughs and shakes her head. -None of those, My Lord.- Gwyn takes a breath in: _the foul mouth_. -I only want to see the First Flame closely.-

Gwyn takes a step back and stares at the Goddess’ ivory face. Too little, way too little for Velka. 

-You’ve never seen it? I refuse to believe it.- Only he was present at the moment of the lighting, accompanied by Gravelord Nito and the Witch Of Izalith; no Velka, as it should have been. _What if she can turn invisibile?_ He shakes his head: he’d know it. 

-I wasn’t there when you lit it, was I?-

-You probably sneaked into the room to see it.- He leans his arm on the wall and stretches the other towards the opposite side. -Impossible that you never did.-

-Possible indeed.- Velka rubs her hand on the back of her head, bends her arm sideways in a crooked smile. A woman’s body, but the mind of a girl: she sees playtime in everything. Fina is serious, glacial, thin eyes and expressionless lips; Caitha has light eyes, and a shaky deep voice, like a bellow. Velka is however always smiling, even when she shouldn’t: even more that day, when was it for Gwyn, every smile would be banished alongside his child. 

Velka takes one step and stands on the tips of her feet to stare into his eyes.

-I’m terrified of that flame. I couldn’t ever watch it on my oen.- 

-You, scared?- Gwyn shakes his head. -Would I believe it?-

Velka’s hair dance on her chest as her head shakes. -I knew you wouldn’t have believed me. You’re as hard as these marbles, Gwyn: it’s easier to tell Executioner Smough to let go of a jug of beer than to convince you that you’re in the wrong.-

-And it is more probable for Executioner Smough to refuse said beer,- Gwyn answers impassibly, -than for you, Velka, to be truthful about your words.- 

Velka’s eyes lower, her hands hold onto one another. -It’s true, Gwyn. That flame terrifies me. I want to see it, but I can’t do it alone. Come on, bring me with you. Let’s watch it together: then, you’ll never see me again.- 

 _She’s lying, I can tell_ ; and yet Gwyn can’t talk to her. He stares into the Goddess’ blue eyes, searching for any tinge of lie there may be: if it even is there, he can’t find it. He will have to say no. This is how Velka’s requests are to be greeted.

Instead, Gwyn offers an open hand to the Goddess of Sin, and holds it tightly onto hers.

-Never: swear it, Velka.-

The goddess smiles, her white teeth glistening like chunks of gold.

-On my life itself.- 

 

As he’d imagined, Velka is amused by the chains as well. She rattles them like a dancer’s ribbons, producing an irritating, off-key ringing. 

-That’s it.- Gwyn orders, and he takes a sharp tug at the end he holds into his hands. -If you want to see the First Flame, give it the proper respect.- 

-I doubt the First Flame will be offended.- Velka reprimands him. -You could ask it, maybe. Hey, Flame! My brother-in-law here says I’m disrespecting you. Rise once if I am, twice if I’m not.- 

She stops and falls to her knees on the ash that covers the Kiln, overtaken by laughter. 

-Get up.- Gwyn orders, pulling at the chain. -Did you not want to see it? Here it is. Feast your eyes.-

Velka advances on her knees until she’s behind him, and sticks her head out from behind his side. 

-Magnificent.- she whispers. -Marvellous.- 

The flames shine ample, as thin as silk. A shaky yellow heart pulsates in the center above the coals, surrounded by lithe orange spirals, rising three times taller than Gwyn himself. The white ash, as smooth as alabaster, produces a tender noise under the soles of their boots. The heat curls the Lord Of Cinder’s beard and caresses his face.

Velka stands up and takes one step forward, but two steps backwards right afterwards. 

-Can I stay behind you? It still frightens me.- 

Her voice is low, absurd to Gwyn’s ears. -Do as you please, but keep in mind that you can’t get away from here.- Silver Knights await outside the Kiln, but Gwyn has required them not to follow them inside. The less people Velka interacts with, the better it is. 

-It was worth it.- the goddess proclaims. She picks a fistful of ash from the ground and blows it off her hand. -Did you do all this? You truly are a wonder.- 

Gwyn would give all his rings to be able to enjoy himself the compliment. _One day it’ll fade: I will have done it as well_. Velka picks up more ash and forms a heap the size of her head. She looks like a child playing around in the sand. 

-Can I roll in it? It’s so pleasant, and warm.- 

-No, you can’t. What you’re doing itself is disrespectful.- 

Velka pouts at him. Then she’s back at the ash, tossing it from hand to hand with a big smile. She’s still wearing that Silver Knight armor: an outsider’s eye would mistake her for a new recruit. 

With black hair tangled on her back, she does look a bit like Filianore too. Gwyn sighs. Maybe she too, one day, will become a warrior. Gwynevere has the manners, diplomacy and charisma of a worthy princess, but she never showed any interest for things of arms; Gwyndolin is so skinny and short she can barely even hold onto a dagger. Filianore could be an excellent warrior, if only she practiced. The spear that belonged to his exiled son has left alongside him: _I’ll have her made a special one, with the best steel in all of Lordran. As long as she hasn’t changed her mind the next day, deciding to be an archer instead_. 

-Have you ever brought your sons here?- Velka puffs more ash off and sits on her knees, staring at him with forcefully wide eyes. 

-Only the first two.- Gwyn answers. Gwynevere had enjoyed it alright. She had respected it: no playing about in the snow like her aunt. She had offered a praise to the creator Flame and the Sun that watches over all lands, and had bowed both entering and leaving. _So unlike her brother. I should have understood back then that he’d not have obeyed._

The Goddess of Sin frees her face from hair and sits cross-legged behind him.

-You miss him, admit it. Finias.-

Gwyn grabs onto the chains around Velka’s wrists and pushes her facedown into the ash. The Kiln blurs, and the First Flame looks like a crater open in a black sky.

-Don’t say his name. It’s forbidden. Nobody can pronounce it.- Velka raises her head: ash covers her face and hair, she looks like a corpse wrapped in a shroud. She wipes her face in her sleeve. She smiles, and she has ash in her teeth too. 

 _My son doesn’t exist no more. I have three daughters, beautiful girls, and Gwynevere is the name of my eldest_. Gwynevere the sweet, the courteous, who hadn’t cried at the departure of his exiled son: she’d have been an excellent queen. Filianore had thrown herself into the main square calling her brother’s name, and had come back kicking on Artorias’ shoulder, Gwyndolin had sobbed into Ornstein’s chest until she had fallen asleep; Gwynevere had red eyes, but no tear on her smooth face. And yet she loved him: she herself had given him the curved sword that had for long blessed his arms. _I should reward her for that. I will give her bracelets, rings, whatever she may ask of me_. 

-I apologize, My Lord.- Velka grins. -I had forgotten it. You see, he hasn’t been exiled for long.-

-You will get used to it.- Gwyn grunts. -Like they all will.-

-And you? Have you gotten used to it?-

 _She’s only saying this to provoke me. She has seen the Flame, she’s content, may she just vanish forever_. Gwyn shakes his head, and only afterwards does he realize Velka can see him. He curses himself. 

-You’re too harsh on yourself.- Velka holds a chunk of hair in her fingers and rips off the attached ash. -He has made his decision. He has sinned against the law. You told him to leave. Such is the world. Or would you have preferred to be one of those lousy parents that excuse every iniquity their precious brats commit?- She pulls out her tongue. -Only because I’m Goddess of Sin, it doesn’t mean I enjoy _all_ sins.- 

Gwyn breathes in the warmth of the Flame. _Make me strong. Hold me. And watch over my little girls_. Velka twiddles the just cleaned chunk of hair around her finger and looks at him with her huge blue eyes. 

-I should have kept more watchful eyes on him.- He pushes his heel into the ash, as if to squish some insect. -It must have been that Kaathe, whispering some fib into his ear.-

Something white and thin covers his eyes. He brings a hand to his face, appalled, and holds the chain into the others. _She threw them. At me_. The ashes of the First Flame are warm against his face, and they itch into his eyes like the old times of war. The scales of the dragons cracked like dead leaves in the snowy sky, their cries shook the trees and the water of the lakes. Many soldiers would stop in place to cover their ears: _I wonder if my son too was scared of it all_. 

-Is there nothing serious, for you?- he yells at Velka. 

Velka wipes her ash-covered palms on her thighs. 

-Instinctive reaction, please understand. I hate those smily beasts. Let people sin in peace, stop whispering things in their ears. Do this, do that… wet nurse. Gwyn, do you really consider that Frampt a friend of yours?-

-He respects me.- Gwyn brusquely says. -He could teach you.- 

-Maybe it’s I, that has something to teach you.- 

Gwyn wants to laugh. -What could you ever teach me?-

Velka stands up and stretches her neck. _A full-on child: what could she ever teach anyone?_

-To stop crying over yourself and accept that sin exists, brother-in-law.-

Gwyn looks at Velka breathless, fingers sweating around the chain – and not because of the Flame. _My son has left, he has betrayed us all, he deserved it: what am I so torn, as if he had died?_ The First Flame burns soft, as friendly as a lover’s arms; the fire of the dragons was destructive, uncontrollable, and the cries of the knights had tormented Gwyn’s dreams for an uncountable number of says, but that Flame was as constant and gentle as a piece of Sun, torn away and hidden into the belly of the Earth. _Only a fool would refuse to protect it. If my son was a fool, it’s up to me to make sure my daughters don’t follow his accursed path_. 

And the Flame does burn, as beautiful as life itself, as Lord Gwyn leads Velka on the way out; a hand on the chain, the other around his arm. _She’s so petite_ : as slippery as a worm, so difficult to stop. 

-Go.- he orders. -If it’s banishment you want, I won’t keep you from it. But we won’t let you act unpunished: the eyes of Great Londo are never closed.-

-I won’t have wings of crowd saluting me.- she sighs with fake sadness.-I’m not a legendary warrior like your son was, I fear.- 

-More warriors will come.- Gwyn answers. -My daughter Filianore shows affinity for the things of arms. Sir Ornstein and Sir Artorias weld the spear and sword with unpaired majesty.- 

Velka laughs with her tongue out. -Was that a foul joke?-

 _Why do I keep talking to her?_ -Just begone already. But always watch your back. Your cult is no longer allowed in Lordran.- He will find a place for the Goddess’ statues: it won’t be the most shameful cancellation in the annals of Great Londo.

-I advise you, Gwyn: I will be angry if you don’t try to stop me.- 

-Why, though?-

Velka steps forward, she turns back to him: she still has ash in her eyebrows and ears. 

-Because what kind of sin is it, if it goes unpunished?-

Gwyn looks at her, confused. He’s silent as the chains are undone and Velka moves off in her too big armor, twirling in the white ash. The Silver Knights follow her some steps back. _They’ll return to Great Londo with fulfilled duty: I’ll reward them, as they deserve_.

Gwyn takes one last glance towards the Flame and he feels its heat filling his heart. He feels better: he’ll only have to be quiet about the reason. 

 

Great Londo is kissed by dusk when Gwyn returns into his rooms and asks of his family. Lady Fina is in her room with her handmaidens and doesn’t want to be disturbed. -The girls, however, are in the living room.- And it’s there that Gwyn throws himself, barely even stopping to answer the soldiers’ salutes.

They sit side by side on the divan, stares lost in the flames’ dance; Gwynevere sits in the middle, and strokes Filianore’s hair with the right hand, while Gwyndolin, curled up in her lap, is sobbing still. 

-Children.- Gwyn whispers. Filianore is the first to turn around and stand up, raising her tiny hands towards him. -Father. We were expecting thee not.- 

-Father is here?- Gwyndolin moans, wiping her eyes. -He is angry at us still? Dost he want to banish us too, as he has done with Fin?- 

Gwynevere squeezes her little sister’s shoulder. -We cannot call him by name, thou knowest it.- 

Gwyn’s shoulders lower under his red chemise. _She’ll be an amazing princess, somehow better than him_. She won’t betray him, since will be able to recognize what’s best for all. 

Filianore stands up, freeing he face from her mother’s black hair, walks towards him shaky steps of unripe grace. She lends him her hands, and Gwyn holds them. 

-Mad, we are not.- she pronounces it. -We wish not to fight. We solely wish to understand. He was our older brother, we loved him well. Why hast thou banished him?-

Gwyn shakes his head. -Thou’rt good girls, I reckon thou shalt understand.- 

Filianore takes one step back, Gwyn shuts his eyes. 

-Understand what, Father?- 

Gwyn walks towards the child, holding her wrist, and leads her to her sister’s side. He sits on the cough next to Gwynevere, relishing in her gentle smile, and embraces little Gwyndolin, letting her cry in his shoulder. 

-A small ruler’s secret: far from pleasant, but of good effect. I shall explain it to thee, if thou wisheth so.- 

The fire twirls in between the stones of the chimney, frantic, soft. Next to the First Flame, it looks like any common rock next to a diamond necklace, but the light it emanates isn't any less warm. Gwyn holds his youngest to his chest and breathes in the bitter taste of the fire. Out of the window, Winged Demons crowd atop the cornices, yellowed by twilight: they too, for that day, have performed their duty.


	10. May Dusk Be Light To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord's Blade Ciaran returns to Anor Londo after the death of Sir Artorias, and has to deliver to his boyfriend the news of his passing. She's accompanied by Dusk, the traumatized princess of the fallen city. The knightess is not really sure what to make of her, but the light of incoming dusk may be the way out of the labrinth of self-loathing, toxicity and fear she gets tangled into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Dakota Fanning (Lord's Blade Ciaran), CL (Princess Dusk of Oolacile) and Donald Glover (Dragonslayer Ornstein)

**Prompt #10:**  Absence

 **Definition:**  N.1, Lacking presence or distance from a place or a person with whom an individual should be or is usually

 **Characters:** Lord’s Blade Ciaran, Princess Dusk Of Oolacile. 

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, post-Death of Artorias

 **Length:** 3.734 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** brief lime, mentioned character death

 

> “ _I won't lie, I'm feeling it_
> 
> _You don't know, I'm missing it_
> 
> _I'm so gone, I'm must admit_
> 
> _It's too much, to hold it in_
> 
> _I can't say no more than this_
> 
> _I just hope your heart hear me now_
> 
> _I let you know how I'm feeling_ ”
> 
> ( **Nicki Minaj ft. Chris Brown** ,[ ** _Right By My Side_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=he3DJLXbebI)) 

 

 

Ornstein sits against the wall, the lion head helm abandoned by his side like a bundle of rags. He raises his head, messy black curls brushing his brown forehead, and staggers backwards in a cacophony of metal. His legs tremble as he stands up, leaning against the wall. His dark, sweaty skin shines like bronze.

-Who is this man, Lady Ciaran?- Dusk asks. Ciaran feels her arm tremble under her glove. She may faint soon: she’s weak, confused, and Winged Demons aren’t the best company a princess in shock could be wishing for. -’Tis Dragonslayer Ornstein, Your Grace. Rememb’rest him? Thou’st met him at the tournament for the name day of Lady Gwynevere.- 

-Ornstein. Yes, yes.- the princess mumbles. She holds onto her dress with her free hand, wide light eyes losing themselves in the warm colours of the afternoon sky. She must rest, it’s all that she needs, and she’ll stop existing for a while: Artorias is dead and Ornstein will eventually come to know. 

Ciaran lets go of Dusk’s arm and walks towards him, stretched back, hands tight around the grip of her trackers. The Dragonslayer stops in front of them, his golden armor glistening like a firework. 

-General Ornstein, the task is done; Manus, Lord of the Abyss, is dead, and the fearsome black dragon Kalameet alongside him. I lead with me Her Grace Dusk, princess of the fallen Oolacile: may she receive shelter, food and water.- 

Ornstein bows, and immediately gets up. -What of the others? Artorias? Gough?-

-Gough has settled down into Oolacile permanently. He is retired, now, and he’s not to come back.-

Ornstein nods. -I knew, he had informed me before departing, I fear my memory is quivering. But I want to know of Artorias. Where is he? Has he not come back with you?- 

Ciaran wishes more than ever to be wearing her mask again: her lips shake and Ornstein is watching them. The Dragonslayer kneels, eyes agape. _He knows, he can feel it_. 

-Where is Artorias?- he pants. -I beg of thee, Ciaran. Tell me he is not…- 

Ciaran is quiet, shaking her head, her braid dancing against her pained back. She looks like a child, next to Ornstein, but it’s him who bursts into sobs, and it’s his tears that drip on Anor Londo’s marble tiles. Ciaran sees his face _fall apart_ , eyes to the lips, like a wax statue melting at the warmth of a flame. -No. Please, no. Not Artorias. No, no. My beloved, no.- 

Ciaran cradles the Knight to her chest, his sobs so strong they make her petite body shake too. _Leave, Dusk. This is no show for you_. She turns her neck just enough to see the princess sitting some steps backwards, knees to her chest, the faraway sun lighting sparks on the golden embroidery of her dress. She mustn’t bother, now.

-Ornstein.- she mumbles. 

-No, no! Please, no! Artorias, my dearest…-

-He fought with honor.- Ciaran whispers. -The Abyss has been stronger than him. He rests well, now. A grave has been erected for him in Darkroom Garden.-

-Gods, please!- Ornstein mumbles. He’s sobbing so much, holding onto Ciaran like a child to his mother, he looks about to choke himself. And there she stays, stroking his back, whispering all the kind words she can remember and thinking that at once, Artorias would be proud of her. _He loves him: how could I not understand him?_

She barely turns towards Dusk: she’s there, motionless, sitting with her legs in her lap. Her eyes are turned to the sky, hands tight around her heart: she’s probably praying. Ornstein gasps in her hold, sniffing. _He’d be proud, could he see us: what a sad price to pay_. 

 

 _Artorias_. Gorgeous as a dream, strong as a legend, but tremendously real when she had loved him. Alabaster face, dark gently curved eyes, onyx black hair, so straight and finely cut they looked like a second helm. They both had loved him, but he had chosen Ornstein, and he had been loyal to him as any true knight should be. He had kissed him on the lips next to the central tower of Anor Londo while she, Gough and Smough awaited in attention some steps backwards. Ciaran had felt some kind of poison pulsating within her chest, sneaky, but she had remained attentive behind her mask, fists clenched: a marble statue that knows of no love. 

Two Silver Knights rush into the square, and Ciaran sighs of relief. Ornstein pants and wipes at his eyes. A tear drips from his chin: molten wax. yet again. 

-I am sorry.- he murmurs. A Silver Knight offers him a hand to get up. The Dragonslayer averts his eyes from Ciaran and stretches his back, as rigid as a wooden doll. -I beg of thee, Your Grace: forgive such an unworthy behavior of mine. Pain has blinded me, and deprived me of reason.-

Dusk blinks, vacuous eyes. -’Tis fine. Forgiveness granted. I see thou suffereth.- 

 _She sees the obvious: far from reassuring_. Ciaran taps her heels on the floor. -With all due respect, General Ornstein, I advise thee to get some rest. Thou hast a grave loss to elaborate.-

She opens her hand towards the Dragonslayer, and lets his gold-plated glove hold her. A peace treaty: Artorias is no more, and any jealousy surrounding his figure has vanished alongside him. _We loved him the same way, but only he was loved back._ A first-rate general. Ornstein, but too  affectionate for the role. 

He turns around, walks to the tower, Silver Knights surrounding him as if to keep him from flying off. Dusk walks to Ciaran’s side. 

-The poor Kinght.- she whispers. -In love, was he?-

-He loved him with all of himself.- Ciaran says, atonally.- He was distraught when he was kept from following him. Love and duty get along not, Princess.- 

-An amazing warrior, he must have been.- Dusk holds Ciaran’s hand and stares at her with light, misty eyes. _They all believe he had saved her. Artorias wouldn’t approve of a honor built upon a lie_. He had always been prideful – so much to depart for a mad venture, to be remembered as the hero of heroes. What was that even for? He had all one could wish for. He was adored by all of Anor Londo and revered by humans as the greatest warrior of all times, even stronger than Lord Gwyn’s Firstborn.

 _And we loved him. Ornstein and I. He loved Ornstein, he had Ornstein, and what’s going to happen now that he’s left him alone?_ In any case, Ornstein or not Ornstein, the Four Knights of Gwyn are no more. There’s only Ciaran, the Lord’s Blade, and she should be well capable of handling herself. All that was required to topple the glass tower of their order was for Artorias to no longer be there.

Dusk tilts her head and shrinks into her shoulders. -Shall I change my garments, Lady Ciaran? Those rags have the scent of bad memories.-

She’s not the first kidnapping victim she deals with: Ciaran nods. -I shall summon a guard to accompany thee.- 

-No!- Ciaran staggers at the princess’ cry. -I beg of thee, I want to do it on my own. I already have incommoded thou enough. If thou pleaseth, I wish to- she frantically blinks, as if her own eyes were sore. -I wish to be able to recover on my own.-

-As thou wisheth.- the Lord’s Blade brusquely answers. Every passing second, her desire to converse diminishes. _Only because I’m not as broken as Ornstein, it doesn’t mean I feel nothing. Artorias is gone_ : a hole must be filled, and quickly. 

 

Artorias’ Soul is just like him: slim, pleasant to keep around. It emits a dry, summery warmth: a characteristic of him not even the Abyss was enough to rip from him. 

Artorias is no more: Ciaran paces back and forth in the main terrace of Anor Londo, hands held onto one another, her mask stuck to her sweaty face. Such a tiny grave isn’t worthy of a man like he was. Was it for her, Ciaran would shroud in black all human and divine lands. She’d stop time, silence every noise, stuff out all torches: Artorias is dead and deserves a peaceful rest. 

The sun is low against the faraway mountains, a swollen and pulsating globe. Ciaran turns the other way and sits on the side of the balcony. Soon it’ll be dusk, and at the rising of the following day, the part of history no longer involving Artorias will begin. 

The story of Ciaran and Ciaran alone: Gough is retired, Artorias is gone for good, and Ornstein… she’ll have to go see him at one point. At least before Smough can reach him: that individual wouldn’t understand the pain of loss even if all people died at once. 

And yet, Ciaran doesn’t get up, and she holds her hands onto her stomach as if a new Abyss, ready to come out, resided within her. _Artorias is dead, dead, dead, and I have loved him. I think, at least_. 

Ciaran shuts her eyes and waits for the sun to fully set. She’s the Lord’s Blade and she can face threats head-on. 

When darkness falls, the warrior takes her mask off, and walks back into the royal palace. The moon is a clove as thin as the blades of her trackers, and as bright as the smile of the lost Artorias. Ciaran holds her hand around her mask. _At least, if he’s smiling, he’s alright_. 

 

Dusk wears an azure gown, with white stars sewn all over the sides, held behind her back by a silver belt. Her hair are loose, a straight luminous waterfall around her tired, paled face. 

-Good evening, Lady Ciaran.- Her tone sounds more confident than that evening. Ciaran bows towards the bed where she sits. She has been given a bedroom in Anor Londo and she has remained there all along: a mannered guest, luckily, and fittingly with her rank. 

-Good evening to thee, Your Majesty. Hast thou a way to nourish thineself? Our kitchens are always open to worthy guests.- 

-Yes, My Lady. A warm soup was indeed what I needed.- Dusk taps at the bed cover. -I beg of thee, sit down. I wish to speak.- 

Ciaran’s fingers fold upon themselves inside her boots. _Converse? I have no energy, no desire, and what would I even tell her? That I was in love with the man that couldn’t rescue her?_ She hadn’t thought of that until then, but Artorias’ precious reputation would have shattered the moment the voices have spread. 

She sits on Dusk’s side and studies the confused, strained expression on her tiny eyes. The warm hands of the princess of Oolacile hold onto hers and Ciaran jumps. They’re silky and smooth, worthy of a royal woman. They make one want to stroke them. 

-Thou looketh like a trustworthy person, and I need to talk to someone.- Dusk barely clenches her teeth and sighs. -I am thoroughly ashamed of what has occurred. A princess of Oolacile, skilled in magical arts, being kidnapped like any poor peasant. Historical annals shan’t be generous with this occurrence.- 

There’s something reassuring in the studied way Dusk forms phrases in. -Thou’rt not to worry about it, Your Majesty.- Ciaran whispers. -Thou hast nothing to be ashamed of. Not even our knight Artorias has been able to defeat that Manus.- 

-He must have been one of the finest knights.- 

Ciaran nods. _Even Lord Gwyn was wrong, this time, and Artorias paid the fee with his life_. -Maybe he too feared the inclemency of historical annals.- she murmurs, not looking at the princess in front of her. -He was an unpaired warrior, but great skills always take great esteem of self.-

-I tested it on my own skin.- Dusk says. She has a grudged, prosaic expression: out of place on her graceful amber face. -I believed that the pendant I took from him would have been enough to protect my Oolacile. Now ‘tis all gone: worthy end of the city ruled by a too proud princess.- 

She shuts her eyes, her face shrinks upon itself as if someone had just struck her. Ciaran holds those soft hands tighter. -Your Majesty?-

Dusk rips her hands off her hold, throws herself at her and buries her face into her shoulder. -Forgiveth me. Truly, I know not what to think. If only my people…- 

-’Tis alright.- Ciaran murmurs. -Thou knoweth not, thou wanteth not…-

-Let us speak informally.- 

Ciaran hesitates, holds Dusk tighter to herself. -As you wish. In any case, it’s not your fault still. You shouldn’t blame yourself for what you didn't want. It was Manus, who has caused it all.-

Dusk sinks her nails in Ciaran’s Hornet Knight uniform. She hears a rip, but she’s not bothered. Dusk removes her face from the warrior’s chest and looks her in the eyes again, wrapping herself in the veils of her soft blue dress. 

-Poor Manus.- she murmurs. 

-Why?-

Dusk looks left and right, as if she was scared of being spied. Ciaran brings her hands to the grips of  her trackers. Killed by a spy: unworthy death for the Lord’s Blade. And she lets go: _what am I doing? There’s no danger. We’re here, we’re safe_.

-I felt his thoughts. That thing thought, feared. It was more than a beast, Ciaran, I know.- 

Ciaran shuts her eyes, shakes her head. She looks at Dusk again, horrified at her pallor. _What of that? He’s the reason why Artorias isn’t here anymore. Even that stupid wolf was capable of fighting, but that didn’t make it any less of an animal_.

-What did he feel, tell me.- she spits. 

Dusk staggers at her words. _Have I startled her? Is she still in shock?_ And yet, Dusk’s face appears vigil, eyes to the ceiling in a reflective manner. 

-I remember it as if it was yesterday. A wrenching nostalgia, a lost joy, an object of obsession, and a sincere hope to reclaim it. It had missed something. What if that pendant itself was…- Dusk rubs her thumbs on her temples, blonde hair faintly flowing around her tired face. 

-Tell no one, Ciaran. They wouldn’t understand.- 

-I won’t tell. Nobody will care of the faith of the one who killed my Artorias.- 

Only afterwards does she realize what she has said. _Oh, no. Gods, cut off my tongue now._ She brings her hands to her forehead and presses them like torture needles, eyes on her feet. -Forgive me. I meant not to…- she babbles, feeling her cheeks blushing. -I meant not to say that. Sir Artorias was but a partner in arms. ’Tis not as it seems, I beg of you.- 

-You loved the Wolf Knight?- Dusk’s eyes are agape.

Of course: the sky is blue, grass is red, and lightning is effective in slaying dragons. She had faced so many: so tiny, often the beasts didn’t even see her, nor feel her climbing atop their backs like a gecko. Then she’d pull out her trusty trackers and stab at their eyes: it was then up to Ornstein, Artorias and Gough to rush to attack as the dragon wailed in pain.

It feels good to fight in four: you know nothing can catch you off-guard. 

One day, a dragon did notice her. Urrax the Colossus, it was called: a chunky cream-white colossus with teeth as big as longswords. It had shook its head as if to chase off a midge, and Ciaran’s fingers had fallen off its scales, and she had fallen for a seemingly infinite time. She had shut her eyes, the cold wind of the evening whipping at her face. When she had woken up, she was next to the familiar bonfire of Gwyn’s camp, and Artorias was holding her hand whispering that it was alright. It was then that Ciaran had finally, truly _seen_ him. 

But Artorias isn’t here, and he’ll never come back. 

-Love him I did, I believe.- she murmurs, and she feels her eyes getting humid. 

-You believe? Why, though? It’d not be a source of shame.-

Ciaran clenches her fists, breathing hardly out of her nose. She has to say it, she has to be strong and honorable as Havel and the Firstborn had been, at the time of their condemnation. 

-I didn’t treat him like one does to a beloved.-

-I’m confused.- Dusk whispers. -You carried his Soul to safety, sheltering it from dishonor. You mourned his death and consoled the one that he loved.- Ciaran feels a hand holding the mouth of her stomach. -You were more than exemplar, towards him.-

-Exactly!- Ciaran screams, and Dusk barely even blinks. She has all the self control of a veritable queen. -He loved Ornstein, not me: and yet, I kept behaving as if he was mine. As if it could have been.- 

A worthy knight must be capable to accept adverse circumstances: Ciaran had fought dragons, assassinated warriors five times her size, trained a whole squadron of knights to protect a world of forbidden things, but it hadn't been enough to accept that Artorias saw nothing but a friend and a partner of arms in her. Courteous, brash Artorias, the first to run into action and the last to run off. When him and Ornstein had announced to Lord Gwyn their decision to be officially engaged, Ciaran had remained hidden behind a column, motionless and invisible, until they’d all be gone. Nobody was to see the Lord’s Blade cry. 

-When you love someone,- new and old faces fill Ciaran’s eyes, shaky hands hold onto the duvet. -You must want their good, not your own. I just wish I could accept it. Artorias is no more, he’s gone, he loved Ornstein. Not me. That is all. And I probably didn’t love him either, because if I did, I’d have let them be happy together.- 

-Does Ornstein know anything of this?-

Ciaran shakes her head no. -He wasn’t supposed to know. It’d only have hurt him more.- A worthy Lord’s Blade was supposed to be a good pretender, and Ciaran had hidden her jealousy well in her yes sirs and salutes. -Ornstein feels esteem towards me. And I treat him like an obstacle to have something I can’t. Artorias was a _something_ , for me. He deserved better than me, but it matters not: he’s no more.- 

She turns his gaze on Dusk and sighs: she looks exhausted. She was supposed to take care of the princess, but the opposite has happened. _What a fine Knight I am_.

-Dusk, I…-

-You have spoken well.- the princess says. She has sweet green eyes, not unlike her lost home. _In her place, I’d not have the courage to look at myself_. -I like you, you make me feel confident. You say you were wrong from the start, with no shame about it.-

Ciaran shrugs, a puff of cold air leaving her lungs lightly. -I’m glad of it.-

Dusk lends her her hand, again, and Ciaran gladly holds onto it. A new gleam shines in the princess’s light eyes. 

-I feel I’m still scared, Ciaran.Will you help me recover?-

Ciaran nods. Nothing else to add, she already understands it all, and she already knows that the best she can do for Artorias is try as she might to no longer see him as a lover. Artorias the Abysswalker died devoured by its grasps to save an accursed wold, and his heard beat for a sweet Dragonslayer, awaiting him in the friendly towers. Lord’s Blade Ciaran loved Artorias like one loves an object, and it would have only been because of his absence that she’d understand the error of her ways. 

His absence, and the sweet, affable eyes of a blonde princess. 

-I’ll do as you ask of me. As long as you too are willing to help me.-

-Help you?- Dusk twiddles a strand of hair around her finger. -How is my help required?-

Ciaran holds her hands and moves her face closer to that of the Princess of Oolacile. Or Queen of Oolacile, it appears.I myself will arrange a worthy coronation. 

-Teach me what true love is about.- 

 

Dusk’s breasts are tiny, but firm and pleasant to the touch. Ciaran smiles in the bliss of her caresses, kisses her lips as if they were the hands of her Lord, admits the golden gleam of her hair whenever she tilts her head. She has had other girls, it’s clear enough: she moves around her with the experience Ciaran herself would have in chasing a foe, and she’s tender, smooth, drenched in the penetrating scent of moss and mushrooms from Darkroot Forest. 

The princess stretches her legs and lets Ciaran’s hand stroke her in the middle. Her thighs are sweaty, as soft as feathered cushions. She pants and holds onto her free hand, tighter, ever more happily.

-Better, now?- she asks, eyes to the ceiling. Ciaran pants a yes; she removes her hand from her for a bit and kisses her lips, intensely, tasting their delicate flavor. It’s good, finally, to no longer having to hide. 

 

It’s only in the morning that Ciaran realizes that no one’s been looking for her. She wakes up before Dusk and admires her soft, amber, bare shape as she gets dressed. She has but the uniform from the previous day, but she’ll manage to reach her room to wear something new. She has a pale pink linen dress, sewn yellow at the sleeves and corsage: the colors of dusk. 

She fixes her hair and wears her trusty mask again. A Silver Knight salutes her, tapping their heels at her right out the door. -Lady Ciaran, command.- 

-I have visited the Princess Dusk to check if everything was in place.. Ciaran stretches her back and shakes the fabric of her coat. -May she receive her luncheon: our finest oranges, warm milk, prime quality honey.-

-It shall be done.- the Knight answers. They turn around and take some steps before Ciaran stops them. 

-One more thing, I prithee.- 

-Whatevery thou wisheth for, My Lady.-

Ciaran pushes her feet against her soles and takes a deep breath. The story of Ciaran, and Ciaran only, is beginning: let it be a fulfilling one.

-Knowest thou where I can find Sir Ornstein?- 


	11. The Value Of Queen Ocelotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the endless days of her imprisonment, Yorshka has always clung to her name and her identity as daughter of the great Lord Gwyn. But it appears it's all fake, as the kindly woman that shelters her says: her real name is Ocelotte, and the only family she has left is a madman. But maybe, that's all she needs.

******Prompt #11:**  PTSD

 **Definition:**  N.2, Negative event, that impacts the person and disorients them 

 **Characters:** Company Captain Yorshka, The Firekeeper

 **Setting:** Post-Dark Souls III, “To Link The First Flame”

 **Length:** 3.830 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** mentioned character death, mentioned sexual assault, mild mentioned gore

 

> “ _Honestly, I know where you're goin’_
> 
> _And baby, you're just movin' on_
> 
> _And I still love you even if I can’t_
> 
> _See you anymore can't wait to see you soar_ ”
> 
> ( **Lady Gaga** , [**_Joanne_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ll04Zzw5UM)) 

 

 

Yorshka’s fingers tremble as they stroke the cold, smooth stone. Ice-blue quartz, caressed by darker shades, cut in the shape of a half moon.

-It belonged to thine aunt Filianore, before she departed for the Ringed City.- Ariadna sits in the middle of the room, arms curled into her lap, and smiles with no eyes in her direction. -The azure quartzes cometh from Zena. A jewel worthy of a ruler.- 

Yorshka weighs the bracelet: it’s so heavy, one could break a glass window with it. More of a piece of armor than proper jewelry. She puts it on her wrist, and it slips down to her elbow. Yorshka sighs. 

-’Tis heavy, and too portly. I am sorry, Ariadna. ’Tis not for me.-

-With all due respect, Your Majesty, but thou’ve discarded four-and-ten bracelets already. Thou can’st proceed in such a way, the coronation shall be tomorrow. The Queen of Anor Londo must dress in the proper way.- 

Yorshka quivers in her dressing gown. It’s all so unreal, so unfit to her. _I am the queen of Anor Londo and the heiress to the throne of Lothric. My sister is my mother, my sibling is my auncle, my father is my grandfather_. And she’s there at Anor Londo, choosing the clothes for a coronation over people she doesn’t know. 

-Art thou startled, Your Majesty? I have told thee many times that it all shall be fine. Is Sirris not with thee? I thought she was trustworthy.- 

Ariadna only wants to help, and she knows many things that could be of use even if she wasn’t queen, but it’s still not enough for Yorshka. At least she doesn’t call her Ocelotte: she had been told her real father was a mad man, but even a mad man, to her, wouldn’t give such a stupid name to his beloved child. He’s no Gwyndolin, and neither is Ariadna: but Gwyndolin is dead and she’s there, alone, overtaken by insidious and cold fear. 

-She is.-. She turns to Ariadna and frees her hair from her dressing gown. Smooth, soft silk, but too white for her: with that on, the bags under her eyes look as deep as the wrinkles of a centenary, and the candor of the fabric terribly reminds her of the saint dress Sulyvahn had forced her to wear for all those years. 

 _The tyrant Sulyvahn has saved me, he has kept me safe from Aldrich’s jaws, he built an entire church around me, and all because he craved my father. My real father, not Lord Gwyn_. It was Ariadna who told her, of course: Ariadna really did know a lot, and she had thought that maybe the fate of a Firekeeper would have been preferable to hers.

-The Pontiff Sulyvahn felt a carnal, perverted, wrong passion for your father.- she had said, and Yorshka had almost spat out her tisane on her new dressing gown. 

-How can love be wrong?-

-It cannot.- Ariadna had said. -But calleth not that love.- 

Sulyvahn is dead as well, and his corpse lays on the floor of the Irithyll Church, pierced by tens of sword wounds. Sirris and Anri had suggested to toss him into the ditch, to be prayed upon by insects, but Yorshka had refused. Not even then, she knows what to make of him. 

The queen plays with the belt of her dressing gown. Maybe, a small chat will soothe her. -Sirris hath enjoyed not my deal with Rosaria’s Fingers. I understand not her vitriol towards them. Much worse invaders, there art.- 

-The Red Eye Invaders hath been enemies to the crown of Anor Londo since ever.- Ariadna shakes her head. Yorshka turns the other way: she hates feeling like a stupid child. -Thine stepsister Rosaria hath grasped the secret of the Red Eye with the held of Archdeacon Klimt and her trusted Knight Kirk.- 

-Yes, I know already the story of Lady Rosaria.- The black-haired Saint has found her old bedroom, her trusted Fingers are at her side, Kirk and Heysel acts as her interpreters with sign language. One day, _I will have to learn that too: a worthy queen must know how to interact with all her subjects._ -She was the mother of Aldrich, that who…-

Words choke her, Yorshka’s fingers tremble around the silk. The room is too dank, and it suddenly starts spinning, slow and asphyxiating. _Gwyndolin has died of the worst of deaths, and I’m here on my own, forced to refuse the name they have given me_. She sits on the dusty carpet and clenches her fists. It’s alright. _Gwyndolin rests well. Anri and the Unkindled One have killed the impious Saint of the Deep. The Pontiff has died too, and the Dancer, and her greathammer-wielding ward, and the three Archdeacons that worshipped Aldrich himself_. But alongside them Gwyndolin has died too, _auncle_ Gwyndolin, who has consoled and listened to her as her mother stabbed her stomach, and in the faraway Lothric Sulyvahn definitely destroyed her brothers and gather. 

-Your Majesty?- Ariadna’s kind voice is animated by a worried shade. Yorshka searches for her hand through the mist, grabs it, stands back up. 

-I am scared, I beg of thee. Delayeth the coronation, I cannot do this.- 

-Shall thou throw away the battle of the Lady of Cinders?- Ariadna has the upset tone of a disappointed teacher, and Yorshka herself feels like a misbehaving child. _I should be strong, confident, queenlike_. -The battle of your grandfather, mother and auncle?-

-Gwyndolin is dead!- Yorshka smacks her hands on her thighs. -Devoured alive, canst thou not see?-

-I do.- the Firekeeper coldly answers. -Many hath died, around these parts. I have felt their pain, every stab of it, down at my Bonfire.-

Ariadna had let her sleep at the Shrine, the night after she and Sirris had come to get her at the Church that bears her name. She had given her soup, some blankets and a sleeping mat, but Yorshka was weeping so hard she was unable to thank her. She saw nothing but Gwyndolin, and they were no more. She was tremendously, completely alone. 

The next day, the Firekeeper had lead her to a city called Lothric. Grey stones, inlaid doors, and red-cloaked knights watching her curiously as they moved to the side to let them pass. 

-What are we doing here?- Yorshka had asked.

Ariadna had held her hand. -Someone’s waiting for you.- 

Far away, behind the walls, the Consumed King’s Garden sizzled of poison.

 

 _I am Queen Ocelotte of Anor Londo, princess of Lothric. Daughter of an insane father and a deceased mother, granddaughter to the great Lord Gwyn_ : and yet, she knew, she’d have never been anything else than Yorshka. Yorshka wore a Saint’s Dress, given to her by Pontiff Sulyvahn; Ocelotte wears the expensive, deep blue silks that belonged to her dead family members. Yorshka was Company Captain of the Darkmoon Blades, sworn enemies to the Red Eye Invader sworn to the Mother of Rebirth; Ocelotte is the Mother of Rebirth’s stepsister and has held her hand in the Cathedral under Sirris’ confused stare.

 _Yorshka was the daughter of the mighty Lord Gwyn, Lord of Cinders; Ocelotte is the daughter of a decayed queen and a consumed king. Yorshka was weak and trusty; Ocelotte is strong, and scared_. 

At one point, she’d have to choose which one to give up upon. But it’d be much easier, much sweeter, to just keep being Yorshka as she’d always have been.

She sniffs. -I wish not to fight, Ariadna. I simply am not ready to be queen. Ready, I am not even to become- she hesitates, tongue clenched between her incisors, - _Ocelotte_.- 

If her father could hear her, up from the tower he has secluded himself into, he’d fall into his frequent hysterics. Children of dragons are called “lotte”, she herself has read it in a history book. _Lord Wolnir, the Conqueror of Carthus, had a stepsister named Shanalotte: I wonder if he loved her the way I loved Gwyndolin_. During the first sleepless nights, Yorshka had wondered what both her mother and Pontiff Sulyvahn had seen in that miserable, screeching monstrosity. She had married him, loved him, given him two twins and she herself, and the sun had faded away from her after insanity had overtaken him; the other had craved him like an object, and in the name of that lust he had kept her alive. 

And yet, something more must have been hidden behind that grotesque blue skin, covered in slimy excrescences, for when she had managed to calm him down, he had spoken to her with the attention of a parent. He had tangled his tail with hers and held her to his chest, still without hurting her.

-I request to be recognized as the rightful heir of the thrones of Lothric and Anor Londo.- Yorshka had dutifully said. Ariadna had explained her what to say, repeating her many times that he’d not have harmed her. And Yorshka had learned that he wasn’t like Sulyvahn – oh, was he not – because despite his hysterics, he hadn’t touched a hair off her. 

-Everything. This is what I’d give you, my child. I’d give you my heart, here, now. I have awaited you for so long, and now here you are, a mature and strong woman. She’s my daughter, I know it: crown her as soon as possible.- 

 _Even the words of a madman can have power, if that madman is the king_. 

He had retreated onto the tallest tower of Anor Londo, without even wanting to meet his daughter’s subjects. He let her see him, her and only her: he told her about dragons, and the great Seath and his pupil Logan, and the brothers and mother she didn’t have anymore. He had shown her the pose called Path Of The Dragon, stroked her hair, given her his staff and his favorite ring, and all the jewelry of less value.

-You’re all that I have, my dearest Ocelotte.- And Yorshka couldn’t help but agree: she was alone, as well. _I need a family. If you want to, you can be my father_. 

He had told her about Sulyvahn, his machinations, and the perverse possessiveness he felt for him. -He’s dead. Ooh, good. Dead, dead, dead. That lying being will torment us no more. He wanted me, he always has, but I never let him get me. I had to protect…- A moment of silence, hollow sockets averting her eyes. -It doesn’t matter now. I have you, now. Only you.- 

She had found a portrait, in the attics of the castle of Lothric. Four serious stares had met hers: a boy with light hair, shapely and rouge, another blonde child, as thin and scrawny as a maggot, a skinny pale man, with bright azure hair, and a busty, soft woman, with fluent brunette hair, holding the four of them in her soft arms. _I called her Sister Gwynevere: she must have been an amazing queen_. 

 

Ariadna sits at her side, strokes her hair with the typical Firekeeper grace.

-I know thou hast suffered, Majesty, but such is the point. ’Tis all over, now. Wisheth thou not to grasp this new opportunity?-

Yorshka shakes her head now. -I am scared, I cannot. I know not these people.-

-Thou shall, Majesty.- Ariadna smiles. -They shall adore thee, thou shall just see it. Is there someone who liketh thee not?-

Yorshka sighs. -Pontiff Sulyvahn sayeth Crossbreeds are loved not by anyone. Mine sister Priscilla too sayeth so. I have spoken with her, she liketh me, but she had been locked into that Painted World for a reason.- 

-And yet, thine father was willing to legitimize her.- 

-Mine father is _mad_!- Yorshka wants to cry, scream, kick. -Mine father hast lost his sanity: only a mad one would think that…-

-A mad one, am I, Your Majesty?-

Ariadna holds her shoulders, massages her arms with her fingers. -No.- Yorshka murmurs. -And ’tis exactly why I understand not what searcheth thou of me. I know very little, of anything.- 

The Firekeeper conjoins her hands on her lap. -Thou shalt learn. Many have fought for this and for thee. Thine parents, thy auncle… the Unkindled One.-

Yes, the Unkindled One: member of the Way of Blue, Archdeacon White Crown on their head and full Herald attire, who had found her in her tower when she still lived in the terror of Sulyvahn. _He’s dead, the tyrant is dead. Wherever they are, my mother and auncle are probably yelling at them  silly. I wonder if they have already embraced the other two._ Her mother and auncle had two siblings, an exiled and a captive, and even on their own they were able to keep looking forward. _They had one family, and they lost it: I found mine again, and I can’t fight still_.  

Yorshka shuts her eyes, reopens them. She imagines for a moment that Gwyndolin is still with her, embracing her and telling her that it all will go the way it has to. 

-Stayeth with me, shall you?- the girl murmurs, and Ariadna silently nods. 

Yorshka stands up, tugs at the strings of her dressing gown. On her vanity her father’s ring awaits, the blue dragon scale shining like a mirror, besides her mother’s gold, finely sculpted one. Yorshka walks towards it and slips each one to a ringfinger. She holds one hand into the other and chills at the cold kiss of metal.

-I am the Company Captain of the Darkmoon Blades. The time has come to fight.-

-The Darkmoon shall make so that things go as they are to. Leaveth those bracelets behind: thou’rt fine as thou are.- the Firekeeper stands up too and squeezes her shoulder with her hand. She’ll soon go back to the Firelink Shrine, but as long as she’s there, Yorshka will enjoy her company to the fullest. 

 

 _My real brothers have been defeated in duel and have fulfilled their duty as Lords of Cinders. My real mother took her own life with a stab of a dagger when I was an infant. My real father fell into the depth of a tremendous madness and took the form of a formless, scrawny drake. And yet he recognized me, he called me with my real name_. He had no eyes to shed tears from, but he sobbed still as he wrapped his tail around hers. He had a deep, authoritative voice, out of place in such a monstrous display, and he gave loud pants at every word. _He probably has some asthma: a humid garden is no place for a dragon, nor for an old man_. May he stay isolated in his tower, if so pleases him. And it’s a pity, for he’s missing out on a pleasant congregation.

They’re all there, two small wings of crowd only for her – the survivors of Firelink Shrine, brought together by Ariadna to witness her coronation.

-Long live Queen Ocelotte! Praise the Sun and the Darkmoon!-

The sun is low against the horizon, lighting their faces of the purest gold. The dark onyxes dangling from Rosaria’s neck, Anri’s red tunic and quartz bracelets, Andre’s leather armor, Sirris’ white tunic, with platinum half-moons sown on her corsage, and the acid green, wide-sleeved dress wrapped around Karla’s petite body; and Greirat in his grey cassock, pyromancers Cornyx and Cuculus, ornate in rubies, mighty Eygon in his white Carim tunic and little Irina in her cream clothing. Even Priscilla is there, wrapped in a snow mantle. She says hello to her with a hand gesture, a soft smile on her thin lips. 

 _We’re similar_ , Yorshka thinks. _That’s why she’s here_. She bows at her, and all the others, the moment she stops. _They’re here for me, and as Queen, I’m here to serve them and honor them_. And when Ariadna places the sun-shaped crown on her head – it apparently belonged to her brother Lorian, now a Lord of Cinder alongside his twin Lothric – she sees nothing but them. 

_If you could see me, auncle Gwyndolin. May Nito’s embrace be sweet to you._

It’s the Shrine Handmaiden, a wrinkly old lady named Elicia, who pours the wine. Yorshka sits on the balcony, admiring the far-off castle, wide and overrun in towers. _My first home_. 

-Our mother often sat at this balcony.- Rosaria says through Kirk’s mouth. -She’d cradle you for hours on end, thinking about her gone family. Our mother and your father loved each other wholeheartedly, and she’d never forgive herself for having let madness get a grip on him.- 

-Nor did he forgive himself for having fallen victim to it.- Ariadna comes closer, her Firekeeper tunic rustling. -In the end, you see, the Darkmoon watches over our plans.- 

Rosaria moves backwards, towards where Heysel stands, and places her arm under the caster’s. _They make a nice pair_ , Yorshka thinks. Maybe, talking to her or Kirk, Sirris too could soften up towards her new sister. But now, Sirris is conversing with Priscilla: the daughter of my father’s obsession, she thinks with a chill. Seath the Scaleless is no subject she likes to talk about: yet her sister is graceful, smiling, speaks vivaciously and politely. Could she forget the pains of her past, for a bit? 

-So, my queen, what’s your first directive?- Patches asks, raising a full jug. -We’re waiting here. I want a dukedom at least.- 

-A duke, you?- Karla chuckles. -At least wait for the kingdom to be completed before destroying it.-

Yorshka laughs, and it’s maddeningly beautiful. _But no, I shan’t go insane too_. She fixes her hair behind her shoulders and rises on a stool, Sirris on the right, Ariadna on the left, hands to the groin. Not exactly a throne yet, but there’s no need to rush it. 

-As Queen of Lothric and Anor Londo, I proclaim for the corpse of impious Sulyvahn, Pontiff of Irithyll and cause of great pains to both townships, to be stripped from his holy vestments, jewelry and mask, and wrapped in crude fabric. He shall lay in eternal rest in the Undead Settlement, besides the souls of those he tormented.- 

 _Like my father_. Sulyvahn craved King Oceiros in a sick, unilateral way. -I was present when your father came to know your mother had died.- Elicia had said. -He squealed like a beast, ripping the few of his gorgeous blue hair off his head, trying to grasp at the Pontiff despite the chains restraining him. Sulyvahn put him to sleep with a spell, held onto his fainted form like one would to to a bride, and laid him to sleep in the king’s own private garden.- _A golden cage for a ruler with no sanity: but he kept him safe enough to stay among the living and recognize me_. 

-For the Blades of the Darkmoon and Rosaria’s Fingers covenant to abandon the reciprocal hostilities and join alongside all the others in the sole covenant Lothric shall allow, the Claws of the Dragon Queen.- 

-You’re the child of dragons, beloved child of mine.- her father would say, holding at her hands as if he feared to lose her. -No one can harm you, no one can rule over you. You’re the Queen of Lothric and Anor Londo: you’re prefect, strong, special.- 

-If you need revenge, father, I’ll assure you get it.-

-I had my revenge when the corpse of the perverted Sulyvahn went cold. But if you want me to fight for you, my beloved Ocelotte, I’ll be the first in your lines.- 

 _Whatever do you think you can do, tell me, if you can barely hold onto your legs and you gave me your sole weapon?_ Yorshka had said yes anyway. Sulyvahn was dead, and it was a relief for them both.

-For the earthly remains of my late mother, Queen Gwynevere, my late auncle Gwyndolin the Darkmoon and my late brother-in-law Executioner Smough to be worthily buried here in Anor Londo; for those of the late Lady Kendra and Sir Vordt, and all the other Outrider Knights of the Boreal Valley in mission for the impious Sulyvahn, to be given back to their homeland; for those of my late brothers Lothric and Lorian, fallen princes of Lothric, to join their ancestors in the family cemetery. As for the remains of the abomination Aldrich, they are to be burned up to the last one: it shall be Anri of Astora to take care of the ashes.- There’s also another stepsister, a handmaiden of the late Gwynevere, killed under the knives of the scholars of the Grand Archives, but for the moment, Yorshka doesn’t know what to do with her. 

-And for the Aldrich Faithfuls, servants of the cruel Saint of the Deep, to be…- 

-Look!- Anri suddenly screams, and Yorshka has to blink to believe in her eyes. 

Dragons. Big, real, with wings that look like sails on the twilight sky, flying towards Anor Londo. -Save yourselves!- Patches screams. Someone cries help. -Draw your swords!-. Sirris orders. -All those who can fight, follow me!-

Yorshka runs in between the guests, reaching her. Karla draws a carved wooden staff, Greirat wields a knife as long as a palm, Andre holds a hammer the size of his head on his shoulder. -Stop!- she cries. -Please, do hold still.- _No, not like this_. -Stop right there, in the name of the queen!-

-Command, and we will follow!- Sirris answers. -Everyone, hold still, the queen has ordered.- 

The dragons hold still in midair and fly in circles, meters of distance. They’re but black stripes against the pale sky, but Yorshka still catches a glimpse of people on their back. _Army or friends?_ Yorshka’s court is still, in waiting. 

One dragon removes himself from the pack and lowers itself towards them.

-En garde!- Yorshka commands. -No one attack until I say so.- 

It’s a scrawny, dark gray creature, with two pairs of feathered wings as big as five banners and a curved, hen-like beak, and it softly lands on the stones of the balcony. A silver-haired man jumps off its back and bows at them. He wields a spear as tall as a cherry tree, with a tip that looks like a rostrum, but places it at her feet with no hesitation. He’s as tall as two Yorshkas, and a thick beige scarf covers the lower part of his face. 

-Is Queen Ocelotte, daughter of Lady Gwynevere, among thee?-

He has a bright, affable voice.-’Tis I.- Yorshka answers, and moves forward alongside Sirris. -Whom do I have the pleasure to be speaking to?-

The man rips his scarf off his face and tosses it at his back. A choir of “ooh”, rises behind the little queen’s shoulder, but she doesn’t budge. She understands, and she’s so happy she could clap. Ariadna was right indeed: the Dark Moon watches over her, and it all will be as it’s meant to be. 


	12. He Who Wants More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a recently crowned king, Idrissa of Iron Keep feels in need of a worthy partner. He has sworn to marry whoever manages to defeat him in battle, the last candidate being a spear-wielding warrior handmaiden for the kingdom of Alkenn. Still, he's insecure about his choice: at least, his dear knight Sir Alonne is there to listen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Idris Elba (Idrissa, the Old Iron King), Gackt (Sir Alonne), Sonakshi Sinha (Mytha, the Baneful Queen), Hailee Sahar (Rishika of Heide, the **** ******) and Avan Jogia (the not-so-Covetous-yet Demon)

**Prompt #12:**  Adrenaline

**Definition:**  N.2, State of high excitement, great energy

**Characters:** Old Iron King, Sir Alonne

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls II, Old Iron King’s kingdom

**Length:** 3.722 words. 

**Trigger Warning:** poison

 

“ _You're blaming all your sins_

_On your best friends_

_And nothing's ever ever your fault_

_Nothing's your fault, baby, no_

_But baby, you don't need_

_Your best friends_

_'Cause I got everything you want_ ”

( **The Weeknd** , [**_Lonely Star_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdH1kXzquQo))

 

 

A ruby has fallen off his armor. There’s a hole the size of a pearl, convex, on his cuirasse. It looks like an eye being shut by a wound. 

Idrissa shuts his own eyes and shakes his head. -When has it happened?-

He speaks calmly, hands clenched to his chest plate, but the knights behind his back whisper and murmur. Only one stays still, and the king already knows which.

-Sir Alonne?- he asks. He has nothing to add: the knight knows already what his king expects of him, and he’ll let him know. It’s a thing he likes about jim, and it’s far from the only one. 

-One could never tell, Your Majesty.- the knight sweetly answers. -That armor has known plenty of battles, it’s perfectly normal for it to be losing pieces.-

-Not today.- Idrissa shakes his head again and strokes the other rubies on his corsage. A drawing of chaotic, wide flames, rising from his waist to his chest. The cuirasse itself is iron, of course, but the rubies shine against it no less than they would against freshly coined gold. 

-Lady Mytha must find everything perfect. And this armor,- Idrissa traces the immobile dance of those cold flames with his index, -is not.- 

He has never seen that Mytha, but he knows she’s beautiful, because everyone has been telling him so. She has hair that shine of silver, eyes as sweet as molasses, curves that would make the Princess of Sunlight pale. Some want to be in her place, others want to have her at their side forever. He, King Idrissa the First of the Iron Keep, will have decided what to do at the end of the battle: if Mytha is as strong as she looks, things will go as they should and he’ll have her at his side as a worthy queen. 

Sir Alonne steps in his direction and places a hand on his shoulder. The one knight I’d allow to do this. 

-I understand how important it is for you, Your Majesty. If I may help, in whatever mean, tell me and I will act upon it.- 

He has his very own expression, halfway between serious and cheerful, that Idrissa has always liked. It means he likes being a subject of the Iron King, but not to the point of seeing at as a mere source of fun. It means, maybe, he understands what it means for him to present himself to a worthy guest from the next kingdom with an armor that’s missing a ruby. _On the other hand, if someone could even understand such a thing, they’d indeed be Sir Alonne_. 

-There must be more rubies, in this keep. We could get a hold of one and quickly clip it to you cuirasse. The messengers inform that Lady Mytha is at one hour of distance still. Nobody will notice the difference, if we’re nimble enough.- 

Idrissa places his open palm on the armor, he feels the skin on his hand folding itself under the gems. Even an armor, if well crafted, can be a jewel worthy of a king without losing a but in his effectiveness. He had the rubies added, but that armor has been accompanying him since the far-gone times of the war that had swallowed Alkenn and Venn whole. And our of the fumes of molten iron he had risen, as mighty as a taurus in his horned helm – his skin burned from under his amor, made incandescent by the near flames, and he himself, Idrissa, felt like being reshaped like live metal in his magnificent, warm stroke. 

One of the defeated enemy soldiers, laying on the ground, was rubbing his eyes filled with ash and tears, and moved away at his passage, slithering like a worm. 

-He’s magnificent.- he had said. He had spoken faintly, but even from under the helm Idrissa’s ears had caught it. _He was about five and twenty, and I never saw him again since. Sometimes I dream of him_. 

 

As the goldsmiths provide to stick back the fallen ruby, Idrissa sits on the tallest balcony of the Iron Keep. Mytha’s cortege is a far-off spot on the main road: the green banners, stroked by a faint breeze, make it look like a moving piece of grass.

Green had been the color of the ancient kingdom of Alkenn, and Mytha has taken it for herself, bringing it back to life like a flame to which more wood is added. The Iron King strokes his sweaty palms in his breeches and breaths in the dry air of late summer.

A fighter, maybe a handmaiden or ward to the princess, but far prettier than her, and more famous because of it. And who knows what else, if the skills with the spear she has spoken of in her letter are any close to reality. I’ll almost feel sorry, when I’ll win. Yet his hands keep sweating, and the fabric of his pants starts itching in an irritating way against his palms. 

_I’ll get over it. The time has come for me to tell Sir Alonne to meet her_. 

Idrissa climbs down and breathes the iron in; the stained glass windows in the throne room project a game of warm lights on his dark brown hands, rise from the garnets of his bracelets in a red whirlwind in mid-air. He strokes his ever sweatier hands on his red silk blouse, the quartz belt shaking at every breath. He will greet Mytha this way, in civil clothes: a small taste of himself before the main course. 

The door is opened: Idrissa takes one last, deep breath. 

Some guards in green armors come in: the first of the two rows, heads covered by helms, hold silk mint-colored banners, on which a deep forest cobra head is sown. They move to the side to let her in, and all air leaves King Idrissa’s lung in one blow.

He doesn’t even know from which side to start looking at her. She follows her form with his eyes, from top to bottom, shaking in his brocade blouse – if there was a God of Sculpture, in the far-off pantheon of Anor Londo, she’d certainly be his best creation yet. Her legs fall smoothly, amber, out of the cut of her emerald green skirt, ornate with pearls that shine like sparks at the light of the stained glass. The thick, soft waist is magnified by a tall black silk belt, sown in silver arabesques. The pentagonal neckline of the dress opens on an average sized cleavage, sustained by also silver corsage, and on the dark chest, as smooth as a recently forged sword, a heavy collier of lemon green peridots shines. 

_She’s as beautiful as they said_ , Idrissa thinks stunned. He suddenly turns to Sir Alonne, and sees his thin lips clenching on one another. Alonne is so cold, and yet seems to understand him like no other. 

He steps forward, lifting his right arm from under the cape. -My lady. I welcome you to the Iron Keep.-

Mytha bows, black wavy hair dangling lightly around her heart-shaped face. They make one want to stroke them: they must have the consistency of the finest silks. But Idrissa can hold himself back, and faintly smiles at her as she stands up.

-Your welcoming is admirable, Your Majesty. I hope to be worthy of it.- 

_Beautiful, as well as polite and with a clever stare_. A lesser ruler would be content with a pretty doll to carry with himself, but the Iron King deserves better. Mytha’s eyes are big and round, as black as fertile ground, framed by eyelashes as long as butterfly wings. She hands hir a slender hand, her wrist tinkling of gold bedazzled bracelets, and Idrissa takes it with the delicacy one would grant a crystal. 

-We shall fight tomorrow, at sunrise. I will use my usual hammer: what will you prefer, My Lady?-

-I use the spear, Your Majesty.- Mytha answers. Her tone is calm, her eyes into his. She could be a good queen on her own: she has the deportment and confidence that only royalty can grant. -Being able to face you, tomorrow, will be the finest honor.- 

Her hair are supported by a glazed circlet, and a white pearl hairnet is wrapped around the back of her head. Her earrings are round, in gold filigrane, the diameter of a thumb; her nose faintly bends backwards, and a gem the size of the tip of a needle shines on her right nostril. I wonder what she’ll wear in battle. An aesthetician queen could be what he needs: the final sign in his future state. 

Once, a low-rank Lord Idrissa had fought for the kingdom of Alkenn, dreaming of a serene castle and a partner to be by his side. That youth, now he knows, didn’t really know what dreams could be like.

Mytha is a dream of flesh: as pretty as the Sun itself, with a brilliant and fast tongue, she spends the first half of the evening discussing with Sir Alonne about the Old Gods, and the figure of the Serpent as a symbol of covet. 

-Serpents are butchered creatures.- she says, as the servants pour the wine. -They eat pray twice their size to survive longer. They fear not to push their limits.- 

Idrissa smiles and nods. -I can’t help but agree. I believe ambition is highly underrated, around these times.-

Mytha smiles – she has a perfect, candid dental arc. -Is it not true? Jaron? Rishika?-

_Ah, these two_. Mytha has two wards with her. The woman has wide shoulders, a long neck, and a forest of scarlet hair surrounding a dark, cherry face; the man is skinny, thin arms and flat muscles, straight raven hair and sunken light brown cheeks. He’s as quiet as a bug, and for most of the evening he keeps his eyes on the plate, gorging himself like a pig; the woman chews with a full mouth and sends languid stares to a blonde handmaiden. 

He’s too shy, she’s too loud: Mytha is right in the middle, and it couldn’t be any other way. Idrissa looks at her talking with her girlfriend, joking about with Sir Alonne and all the others as if she had been knowing them all her life: if she’s as good a fighter as she’s a talker, she can already consider herself crowned. 

 

-Your highness?-

Sir Alonne looks at him as motionless as usual, but his eyes are agape and stuck, and don’t belong to him. -There are bags under your eyes. Are you sure to be alright?-

Idrissa shakes his head. -A mirror, if you please.- he shouts at a servant polishing a window. He may not be the finest display, but a good king must be prepared for this and more. What can a man who went through a sleepless night, sweat dripping on his bare, hairy chest, tossing in his coral silk comforters, breathing air as heavy and bitter as iron dust. If he did sleep, he doesn’t remember it: his eyes are misty and bleary, his mouth dry, his skin sticky and squashy to touch. _I could fall asleep on my feet. What has come onto me?_

A part of him hopes that Lady Mytha ends up in similar conditions. _I will fall apart like a marionette, I know it_. His cuirasse seems to crumble upon him, bending his shoulders to the ground like an old hunchback; his iron helm, with two bovine horns rising from his temple on high, digs a circle in his cranium. Sir Alonne, fixing his bracelets, gives his wrist a squeeze.

-You’re ill, My King.- 

-Nonsense. I’m as strong as iron, my knight.- If he was indeed ill, mark his words, the Gods would owe him a big one. He rubs his right fingers on his forehead as Sir Alonne puts the glove on his left hand. 

-Is my hammer ready?-

-Ready, My King.- Alonne answers. -Fully polished. But I beg of you, reflect upon this. Lady Mytha can wait.-

-Hush.- Idrissa hisses. Alonne steps backwards, eyes agape. He walks back to him, squeezing his wrist again-

-Sire, please.-

-No. Let go of me.- Idrissa takes a deep breath, eyes into those huge, languid, forsaken black eyes. Alonne is loyal, he didn’t deserve to be yelled at. Alonne could be a great partner for his life: was he only interested, but he’s not. A king should know how to make compromises.

-Forgive my sudden hysterics, my knight. I have a headache, but fight I will.-

-As you prefer, My King.- Alonne faintly lowers his head and leaves, back straight, wide shoulders, long black hair swinging as light as silk on his back. Idrissa’s heart beats like an armorer’s hammer under his cuirasse, and it feels as if even the rubies are shaking. 

He takes a deep breath, then another, and on he goes until the main hall.

 

Jaron and Rishika are two columns, and Mytha is the idol in the middle: two braids as black as obsidian, slip from under a curved helm, tight on the lower side, plated in green and black. The cuirasse is barely pronounced on the chest, and scales of jade run down the sides and waist. The kneecaps are carved in a spiral shape, similar to certain shells, the pleated skirt is sustained by an iron studded belt. 

_She looks like a Goddess of War, ready to bloom_. The spear awaits against the wall: a thicker, straight tip stands out in the middle, preceded by two couples of curved points, leaning side by side like two half-moons. The handle is dark wood, as thick as a newborn’s wrist. 

-Your Majesty.- Mytha exclaims, and bows alongside the other two. Rishika wears a red coat and brown breeches, the handle of her sword sticks out from behind her left shoulder; Jaron’s hair are tied in a ponytail, and two skinny legs, wrapped in tight black leather pantaloons, stick out from under a beige cassock. The scythe leans against the wall, a few meters backwards. 

-’Tis a pleasure to see you. You’re radiant.- the king announces. -Are you ready?-

-If you are, My King.- 

_How can I say no?_ Idrissa’s heart stomps like a war drum as he asks for his hammer. 

It’s Sir Alonne that hands it to him, bowing. Their fingers brush each other, the knight’s black eyes meet his, and they’re dense of worry. _I will win, worry not_. Idrissa holds both his hands around the handle, feels the weight of his hammer contrasting with his arm. And it’s a marvel: he feels himself reborn, like iron on the anvil, warm, loaded, unstoppable. _A winner, a king, a man of power, a conqueror. And all because of my own strength_. 

-Are you willing to fight without a shield?-

-If you are.-

-No shield, then.- Only you, me, and our contrasting strengths. -With all due respect, are you sure that such a light armor is convenient?-

-It’s custom made for me.- Mytha strokes the spear’s handle as if to feel its resistance. -I prefer a quick fight, if so pleases you.-

-Well, then. If you want to step forward, the battle can begin.-

Mytha steps once, the iron of her small armor singing like a bell, and draws her spear.

-After you, My King.-

Idrissa holds his hammer tighter and charges forward, feeling its heavy stone inside his own chest. He roars to the ceiling as he smashes the head of the hammer on Mytha. 

The small warrior jumps back and bounces on her feet, as agile as a snake. Someone shudders from afar – it’s Jaron, the shy warrior – but Idrissa wastes no time looking at his face. He keeps his eyes fixed on Mytha, waiting for her move. The spear swings towards his face and smashes against the rock head of the hammer.

Mytha pulls it back and pushes it back forward – again, and again, and the clangor of metal on molten stone seems to reach the ceiling. Idrissa grunts. _I’m stuck. She’s tiny, but she tries: soon she’ll stop_. He’s almost left breathless when the central tip of the spear brushes against his ear. To push it off, this time, he needs to hold his hammer with two hands. 

_You fool, don’t get distracted_. The redhead, Rishika, holds one hand to Jaron’s and raises her fist with the other -Come on, My Lady. Come on!- 

Idrissa leaps back, the tip of the hammer smashing on the floor. When he raises his eyes again, a tile on the floor has been misplaced. _Nuisance_. Mytha adjusts her hold on the spear: Idrissa jumps to the left and smashes the hammer towards her folded arm. 

Mytha slithers to the wall, but the head of the hammer still scrapes her right hand. She emits a wail and widens her big dark eyes. The hair fallen off her braids mud her face up, like the scratches of some beast. 

The tip of her spear strokes the floor. -Come on, Your Majesty.- Alonne murmurs, and Idrissa rises his hammer to the point where the wooden haste becomes the metal tip. His heart quivers like the surface of the sea as the haste is bended: _if I break it, it’ll be over. What am I so agitated about?_

The head of the hammer smashes on the tiles in an off-key chiming. Mytha holds her spear with one hand, as straight as a banner: she swings it in the air and aims it at his face. Sweat drips thick on her chin, a braid has lost the bow that held it and has come undone. Yet the blade is so damn close, and Idrissa’s heart pulsates and beats like mad. 

_Not like this!_ Idrissa grabs the tip of the spear in his armored glove and pushes it to the sky. He spins away and holds his hammer again. _One hand will work, I’m too clumsy. I must focus: this fight is shameful_. 

Mytha pushes her spear forward again, high and low: Idrissa covers his face with his hand, and the spear tinkles on his wrist. _Is this little one never tired?_ A good queen could be persistent, but Idrissa has to be even more: _I’m the Iron King, and that’s not how I am defeated_. 

-Come on, My Lady. You got this!- Rishika and Jaron peep. Idrissa spits out and searches for Alonne among the onlookers: he’s there where he left him, erect and elegant as a worthy knight. He has a lot to teach to those two crazy heads. They’ve probably only been knighted recently, he could forgive that ruckus. He will, he can, he must. He grabs Mytha’s spear from behind the tip a second before it reaches his face. He pulls it, feeling his fingers sweat under the iron, his heart thumping under his ribcage.  

Mytha emits a surprised shriek and falls backwards, on her rear – disarmed. Idrissa throws away the spear like a piece of junk and aims his hammer at Mytha. She’s done for, he has won: a better queen will be found in a better place. 

He searches for Alonne in the crowd, again, and sees him. His heart jumps: he’s terrified.

What is it that…

It all happens slowly: Mytha moves her wrist towards him, something small, silver and thin. Idrissa’s eyes block open as he sees it approach, and yells as it strikes him: flat, curved, burning on his skin like _poison_. 

-Ah!- Idrissa brings his hand to the burning wrist. Mytha vanishes for a moment – then something strikes his ankles and Idrissa feels himself fall backwards, like a fallen giant. So slow, so unavoidable. His back smashes against the floor, and a hammer blow to the heart leaves him breathless. 

-Your Majesty!- someone screams, but Idrissa’s eyes lose themselves in the ceiling, fading away. 

 

Grey, cold sweat: two damp eyes agape over him. His heart stopped pulsating: it’s now his head that’s struck by a thousand blows.

-Alonne.- he gurgles. His eyes are on him, glittering.

-Don’t strain yourself, My King. It’s alright. You just fainted.- 

_How did I do that?_ All his body hurts, even his heart has gone quieter. Jaron holds his legs high, Rishika pushes away onlookers with open arms. Mytha kneels by his side, terror in her huge dark eyes. 

-Are you alright, Your Majesty? I beg of you, forgive me.- 

Idrissa holds onto Alonne’s arm and sits up. _Did all the Iron Keep fall on my head?_

-Mytha?- he pants. She’s still there, and it’s honorable from her part.

-I meant not to poison you.- she murmurs. -Drawing that dagger was a conditioned reflex. It’s a late effect poison, and I have an antidote at hand. I can pull back my proposal.- 

-Reflex.- Idrissa repeats. _She threw me on the ground with a mere kick to the ankles: tiny, but smart all the same_. -Yes, ready reflexes are a good thing indeed. I liked you, My Lady.-  

Mytha’s eyes glisten like risen stars. She brings her hands to her mouth – she looks like a little girl who just met her favorite champion. This time, though, the champion is she. _I have a queen_. 

-Really?- Mytha exhales. 

Words escape Idrissa’s lips with inhuman fatigue. -Lady Mytha, do you wish to be my wife?- _She beat me, which makes her worthy of me. I should be happy_. Yet he feels himself crumble, and grabs onto Sir Alonne with his eyes. 

Mytha blinks, kneels. Rishika clenches her fists and smiles. Jaron steps backwards. 

-Yes.- she murmurs. -My greatest honor…-

_They earned it_ , Idrissa thinks. He needs to sleep. He has to let it out. His guests will have a lot to object. He’d give anything for that dreadful day to start over. But there’ll be a fast to organize, a crown to forge, those two weird individuals the new queen carries with her to get to know. It’ll be harder, much more than that battle has been.

-Now, please. A cure for the poison.- he moans. -Alonne, ensure for it all to go as planned.-

The warrior lends him his hand, holds it out of impulse, but it doesn’t hurt. This time, he feels from his wrist, it’s his heart that’s beating so loud. 


	13. She Who Couldn't Have It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idrissa, King of the Iron Keep, has only ever looked weak twice in front of others. The first time, he had his favorite knight to comfort him. The second time, all he has is his wife Mytha and other knights he feels much less for.   
> Mytha knows this. He herself has a favorite knight she confides in, who knows loneliness as much as she does. But unlike him, she can't bring herself to find solace in food. She needs her Idrissa – but does he want her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Sonakshi Sinha (Mytha, the Baneful Queen), Avan Jogia (Jaron of Carim, the kinda-Covetous Demon), Idris Elba (Idrissa, the Old Iron King), Gackt (Sir Alonne), Miriam Leone (Sentinel Alessia), Nathalie Emmanuel (Sentinel Ricce), Dev Patel (Sentinel Yahim)

******Prompt #13:**  Fever

**Definition:**  N.1, Increase of body temperature due to pathological causes || fig. horse fever, very high

**Characters:** Mytha, the Baneful Queen; Covetous Demon

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls II, Old Iron King’s kingdom

**Length:** words. 

**Trigger Warning:** poison, corpse shown on screen

> “ _I put you on top, I put you on top_
> 
> _I claimed you so proud and openly_
> 
> _And when times were rough, when times were rough_
> 
> _I made sure I held you close to me_ ”
> 
> ( **The Weeknd** , [Call Out My Name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4ZoCHID9GI))
> 
>  

 

The door to the king’s bedroom is shut from inside. Muffled voices whisper from behind the wooden beams, muffles mumbles phase through the door lock. 

-Silence. The king has to rest.- Sir Alonne orders. He’s not screaming, yet he can be heard louder than other voices. Like an entire man, they’re all silent: clerics, wards, attendants and servants, came into the room of Idrissa the First like flies attracted by the honey. 

-Leave, now.- Alonne again, in a calm and tender tone. -Only the clerics may stay. The others, go back to your works. Tell Lady Mytha it’s alright.-

_Lady Mytha already knows: Lady Mytha is eavesdropping from behind the royal chamber door, and Lady Mytha is far from content of almost having poisoned her betrothed_. She told Lady Rishika to keep the poisoned dagger away until a new order. She wouldn’t be surprised if they’d ordered her to melt it; it wouldn’t be an issue, and she gleefully would. 

Idrissa is handsome: he has golden eyes, pure and lucent on his dark brown skin, thick and authoritative, wide nose, full lips, a flat and refined beard that follows the blunt cut of his cheekbones with precision. His hair is short, close to the skull, and so curly they look like chainmail. The most perfect beauty of Forossa. 

_What if he wasn’t alright?_ Mytha shrinks into her gown, she feels the silver embroidery scratching against her palms. Olaphis brocade, iridescent, between green and azure: light dances on it like the wind on a bed of water, and the fabric itself seems to change its color at every gesture, as if a reef of algae and corals was to emerge from behind the intricacy of the thread.

An appropriate gown, since Mytha herself feels like sinking. 

The bedchamber’s door handle bends lower, then upwards: Mytha leans her back on the wall and stretches her arms to the sides.

Two servants come out, then three armored guards, and a page with a bowl of water, and Sir Alonne. His hair are undone, a black waterfall around his pale face, and his just as black eyes look as big as cherries. He wipes his sweat with the red truss he’s wearing around his waist. 

-My knight, please.- Mytha murmurs. -It wasn’t my intention, I swear. I drew the dagger without realizing so.-

-Poison is no loyal way of fighting.- Alonne shakes his head. -But you assure me it was a conditioned reflex. I can see. Few people keep their rationality in battle.-

Mytha takes a deep breath. Alonne can be reassuring even when frowning: what she’d give to be so herself. _Mytha, the Baneful Queen that poisons her beloved before marrying him_. -What matters is for him to heal. If you allow me to help…-

-He has all he may need.- Alonne’s thin lips attempt a smile. -I prithee, worry not. He is still intentioned to proceed with the marriage.-

A weight, like that of the Keep itself, is lifted from Mytha’s stomach. -My thanks, knight.- 

Steps sound from down the corridor. Mytha’s hair whip her cheeks as she turns around. 

-Your Grace.- Rishika leans her hand on the wall to stop her rush. -We feared it was too late.- Jaron’s head sticks out from behind her shoulder: a dark, ephebic arm, holds onto the warrior’s wrist.

-Worry not.- Mytha says. -He’s fine. He’s just a big feverish, but he will recover. He has the strong temperament of Forossa.-

-What kind of poison gives fever to the victims?- Rishika asks, twiddling her nose. 

_One of my own: I simply scraped him, but had I gone further I’d no longer have a spouse_. Make him happy, as he will make her. Why is it so hard?

-Evidently His Majesty is stronger than us.- Jaron murmurs. His eyes are low, and he torments with his hand the edge of his coat. -It’s better for him to rest, thought. If you want to, Your Grace, I can accompany you to your rooms. You fought well.- 

Mytha whispers a yes, and a string of courage fills her up as they both kneel. She’ll have to get used to this. She’s the queen, and she has earned her throne. 

Jaron holds her wrist, but retreats immediately. -I apologize. I would no longer…- 

-Apologies accepted. Come, if you please.-

Rishika is more charismatic, but she doesn’t feel like talking to her. _She likes me: nothing weird about this, many like me, and many does she like_. Jaron twiddles a perfectly straight strand of hair around his index and shrugs. -As His Majesty requested anything of me?-

-No.- Mytha answers. -He’ll have time to get to know you and Rishi. He will like you: he appreciates perspicacity, in a subject.-

-He already has Alonne for that.- Jaron shrinks into his shoulders. -He’s so string, You know what’s said of him? That he has killed ten warriors of Venn on his own, with nothing but a dagger.-

Mytha sadly smiles, without him being able to see her. -Come on now, he’s probably a legend. He’s an excellent warrior indeed, but that much…-

He couldn’t resist to a blow from a poisoned dagger. It’s almost weird to think so: the indestructible cuirasse of the Iron King has a leak, and she has found it without even wanting to. Idrissa was imposing in his armor, and the horns on his helm spired atop his head like a revived dragon. He should have been the last person he’d expect to fall apart like that. 

-What if I had killed him?- it escapes her, and Jaron’s eyes meet hers, wide and confused. 

-You haven’t murdered him, My Queen. He’s strong.- The warrior steps backwards. -Can I call you My Queen, or of you prefer else?- 

_How cute_. -My Queen will be alright.- Even thinking those words gives her a shot of energy that she hasn’t felt in years of fighting. She had often looked at herself in the mirror imagining a crown on her head instead of the usual hairband. It’ll be a strain, it’ll weigh on her head like an entire water well, but it’ll be worth it. 

_Idrissa will be fine. I must think about this. I have plenty of time to become a good queen_. 

 

Idrissa sleeps with his back up, crumpled up blankets around his scarlet nightdress, face buried into the pillow in which he has wept since before dusk. Mytha would like to cover him up better, but she’s afraid to wake him up. Dreams can sweeten a loss in a way she can’t.

Sir Alonne’s corpse has been laid down in a secondary room of the Iron Keep. Mytha herself has superintended to the operation: Idrissa had already ran to his rooms, sobbing so loudly she had heard him from behind the wall as well. The clerics that had come to constatate the decease had washed him with their finest ointments, climbed his long raven hair into a perfect ponytail, clothed him in a white tunic, with the traditional wide sleeves and bifurcate lacing of his homeland. Now he’s resting alone, washed and dressed, head turned towards the North: warmed by the smokes of the smeltery, cradled by the faraway stomping of the hammers and Idrissa’s, Jaron’s and her own sobs. 

_Seppuku_ : she has read about the practice, but never would have she imagined to see it herself. Sir Alonne’s stomach was opened from the front, left from right, and the blood formed a puddle big enough to contain the entirety of his laying-down body. _He has died quickly_ , the clerics say. _He has lacerated his aorta, probably of his own will_. Warriors that commit seppuku are searching for a quick, dignified death: no one deserved it more than Alonne. 

If he was in such pain he’d take his own life, he has kept it well hidden. Mytha prefers to think that he has been defeated in battle, by someone sneaking in without even showing himself. Impossible, but more pleasant than the cold reality.

Mytha undoes her bun, letting her hair fall around her face. She dedicates one last stare to her spouse’s shaking body and walks off, to the closet. 

_Idrissa was sobbing so much he hadn't noticed we were preparing him_. Jaron knows the funeral traditions of the land of Alonne – he had been there a year before becoming a knight of hers, and still remembers well. It had been him to make sure Alonne’s vest was properly buckled. The right side goes above the left, the opposite from the way he’d usually wear it: Mytha didn’t know of that, and she had followed Jaron with distant eyes as Idrissa shed tears into her chest like a child – the last ones, before running off without even talking to her. It had been him to place a table adorned with flowers, incense and a candle to his bedside, and a dagger into his yet cold hands. 

Alonne too had been handsome: broad shoulders, triangular face, expressive eyes, tonic muscles at both his legs and arms. Mytha faintly breathes, tugging onto the strings of her black dress. No handmaidens for dressing up, this morning. May it never be that the Queen of the Iron Keep bursts into tears in front of her subjects. _Could it be exaggerated?_ Idrissa has fallen asleep in between sobs, tonic shoulders quivering and shaking, yet he radiated royalty from every pore; and he does still, in his deep sleep, pillow damp of sweat and tears. 

Mytha places the mourning veil on her hair and slips her feet into a pair of grey leather shoes. There’ll be a wake for the corpse, and she’ll be present: her arm around Idrissa’s, her hand into his, her legs the cane to hold onto. 

She gives one last glance to the sleeping king, feverishly shaking, and walks off with a sigh. 

 

Jaron sits by the side of Alonne’s corpse: he’s wearing a black cape on a grey tunic, tight around his arms like cuffs. His thick, wide knees stick out from his round belly, whose rolls, as wide as Mytha’s calf, pile upon the folded thighs. -Your Grace.- he murmurs without turning around. 

-How did you recognize me?- Mytha asks. 

-Your scent. Red roses of Melfia. Sweet.-

Mytha shakes her head and walks close, leaning one hand on that huge shoulder. _He was a reedy boy, when he came to me_. His face has taken a full moon shape, and his brown hair fall oily and uncombed around his brown face. His thick fingers tangle on each other in a slow dance on his lap.

-How’s- his voice chokes in his throat -His Majesty the King?-

Mytha bows her head and lifts it again. Nothing else to add. A perceptive youth, Jaron, even before gaining all that weight. She’d want to hold his hand, but it’s not possible, not with Alonne laying motionless by their side. He has to rest serenely: it’s what he deserves, rather than Idrissa’s feverish dream.

Jaron tucks two strands of hair behind his ears. -Let me get you a stool.-

-I will do it myself.- Then she remembers. -Thank you.-

He looks as if he’s been sitting there forever, and unwilling to get up. The hair in the back of his head are held by an amethyst brooch. His eyes are big and red, and they run slow on the limp shape of the dead Knight. 

_Is he to speak?_ He’ll surely be of better company than Idrissa. Mytha shuts her eyes, pulling her memories away from that of her desperate spouse. He’ll no longer be himself when he wakes up, and she doubts it’ll be a pleasant change. It'd be much sweeter to close her eyes and sink her face into Jaron’s wide shoulder, then reaching Idrissa in his chaotic dreams of loss. 

_It’s Rishika, that I would need_. She was as bold as she was loyal, and she’d not hide behind a wall of etiquette and courtesy to console and be consoled. But Rishika has vanished, and Jaron has searched for her without ever finding her. Not even Alessia, Ricca and Yahim, her old partners, knew where she had ended into. _Alonne was desperate_ : he himself would have gone search for her, hadn’t the Iron Keep needed him and only him. If Rishi is dead, she’ll meet Alonne with open arms. A small comfort, to barely lift her chest.

-His Majesty may not reach us for the wake.- she murmurs to Jaron.

-Is he sick?- he asks. -He looked in great pain when he came to see him.-

He cradled his knight as if he himself was his spouse, deaf to the voices of his servants and knights and herself consoling him with studied words. -I believe he’s ill. Pain burdens the body as well as the mind.- 

-He was his favorite. He has accompanied him in every battle. There’d be no Iron King without a Sir Alonne.- 

_And now, can there be an Iron King without a Sir Alonne?_ The question vibrates into Mytha’s mouth, and she suddenly feels horrible. Her spouse’s favorite knight lays dead in front of them: his ebony and bronze coffin contains him like a cradle, and the magnificent Idrissa’s cuirasse has melted into a flow of molten iron and tears. 

_I poisoned him by mistake, the day of our fight_. Jaron’s big hand is there, leant over and ready to be held. _I’m falling apart like Idrissa. Alonne loved us, he serves us till the end_. He was bigger than Rishi, faster than Jaron and more clever than the two of them. If the murderer is still around, words of a queen, they will get him. It’ll be the best medicine for Idrissa. The stars bloom one by one, far away, behind the room’s small window, and the cold of the night strokes Mytha’s arms from under the silk sleeves.

The door opens with metallic raucous. Idrissa is standing in between the hinges: the sweat sticking to his forehead and cheeks makes his face shine like Twinkling Titanite, and the gold of his irises bursts against the bloodshot orbits. He looks as if he has just awoken from a millenary slumber – but fever doesn’t leave him in his wake, and it’s with hesitant, dragged steps, crooked back and standoffish stare, that the Iron King places himself in front of them. 

-’Tis good to see you two.- he says, but his eyes are laid upon the motionless corpse, and they never once meet Mytha’s. 

 

Idrissa comes late to the funeral as well: it’s held the following day, in accord with the Eastern Land’s tradition, and it’s Jaron that accompanies Mytha, holding her by the arm. It’s soft, reassuring: he’ll have to stop gorging himself at some point, but to Mytha it’s like the skinny boy she once knew has never existed. Jaron is fat, but he can be three times so as long as he can weld the scythe and obey to commands. _Maybe, that way, he could fill the void left by Alonne and Rishi_ , Mytha bitterly thinks. Then she sees Idrissa walking up to her, and lets go of the Knight’s soft arm to hold onto her consort’s muscular one. 

Idrissa isn’t looking at her – _some habits die hard; may the Gods be damned_. His black velvet mourning tunic is as shiny as a wolf’s fur, and his golden eyes shine warm under his hood. Tears soak his chest, dripping down his cheeks.

-My dearest?- Mytha asks. _Look at me, Idrissa, look at me: I ask no further of you_. There’s Alessia, Ricce and Yahim, came there from Heide, and they bow to them with symmetrical elegance. 

-Our deepest condolences, Your Majesties. Queen Mytha, your look is radiant.-

-We thank you.- Mytha answers for the two of then. _Idrissa, my splendid Idrissa, what are you doing?_ The Iron King barely lifts his head, mumbling a thank you. _He’s just sick_ , Mytha tells herself: tradition says that the funeral must take place right after the wake, and her husband had no time to recover. She’d give all her tiaras to take care of him, but the Iron King can’t be seen weak, not even by his wide.  

The Ruin Sentinels bow to Jaron as well, and a sudden redness colors the warrior’s dark cheeks. He wasn’t that fat, the last time they’d seen him, but Mytha is ready to bet he’d blush even if he was still skinny. 

_Loss doesn’t fit them_. Ricce’s natural curly hair are held by a black silk hairband, and the tails of her leaden coats sweetly frame her sculpted body. Her brown face glistens of fresh tears. Alessia, in her shiny tunic, looks as white as the dead one himself in the middle of her orange ringlets. Yahim has a long beard, light brown hands shaking until Ricce holds them. _All the way from Heide, to mourn their second lost friend_.

Second for only the two of them, it was: Ricce had loved Rishika so much, she stood out among all the knightess’ conquests. Many girls had known the lady closely, but only one for so long. For days she had deserted vigil, after Rishi’s vanishing. She probably had fallen ill as well; that’s why there’s three sentinels, after all.

Idrissa clenches his fists. -My dearest?- Mytha asks. 

-I don’t feel good, but it’ll pass. Worry not.- 

Idrissa’s eyes shine like just-minted coins, and don’t move in any way from poor Alonne. A sneaky, horrid thought slips into the Queen’s head. She looks at Jaron talking to the Sentinels, the pale motionless body of the dead knight, and Idrissa, Idrissa, _Idrissa!_

Mytha freezes as if an arrow shot from nowhere had pierced through her belly. 

 

_Why hadn’t you told me, beloved mine? And how could I, poor fool, not notice it?_

Mytha holds Idrissa’s hand as if it could slip off her grip. Alonne had been the King’s shadow, but he was bound to him by something deeper than a strand of light. 

_I should have noticed it. The signals were blatant_. She had struck the arm of the Iron King with a poisonous dagger during their duel, and he had fallen, and Alonne had stayed next to him, stuck into his eyes like the prettiest thing he had ever seen. _He probably was: prettier than me, even_. Mytha falls her husband’s hand shake in her hold and feels about to faint, there and now.

A hole has been cut in the iron of his armor, and nothing will ever fill it. The sermon by the cleric summoned for the event loses itself around her like a swarm of midges. Even with her eyes shut, all she sees is Idrissa – Idrissa that doesn't love her, Idrissa that kept his heart hidden to both his bride and the sweet object of his dreams, Idrissa that doesn’t look at her and never has – and wishes to hide underneath the earth like worms. 

-Your Majesty.- Jaron’s voice shakes her up from her torpor. -Your Majesty, are you…-

Idrissa's hand bends itself in her hold and sinks to the floor. 

Mytha jumps back with a shriek. Idrissa lays on his back, as sweaty as a pilgrim in his mourning cape. His mouth is open, and a string of drool seeps through his candid teeth. Jaron reaches him before she can.

-Your Majesty!- The Knight falls to his knees next to her husband, with a thud that shakes the tiles. How did he get so big in less than a year? Sudden visions of Jaron at their banquets, puffing out a word every half an hour, bent over a never empty plate, fill her eyes. While Rishika laughed and Alonne entertained, Jaron ate: and he’ll probably gorge himself even more now he’s alone.

Mytha kneels to Idrissa’s side and traces her spouse’s forehead with her palm. She tenses in disgust in contact with the sweat that covers him like rotten dew, and staggers immediately afterwards as she feels a thick and intense, smelter-like heat, in contact with his skin. 

It’s the second time the Iron King faints in front of her. Not having been the cause, this time, is but a measly comfort. Mytha drapes her lips on his, as they did every night they’ve ever met in their bed. He probably thinks I’m him. He had such a fine mouth, and the courteous ways of a prince like them. 

-He’s scorching.- the queen proclaims. -Raise his legs and bring forth some cold cloths. Interrupt this mass, Your Holiness.-

-But the Knight…-

-The Knight will be remembered by a conscious king.-

-No, please.-

It’s Idrissa’s voice, and feeling him beg sounds alien on Mytha’s ears. 

-Do go on, please. Alonne deserves it.-

-You're ill, my dearest.- Mytha whispers. -Do think about it.-

Idrissa shakes his head. -Pull me up, damn it!-

Jaron lends him his big arm, and Idrissa climbs upon it like a tower. -Do proceed.- 

His legs shake, his teeth are as clenched as a portcullis. _He should get to bed, not stay here to suffer more_. Even Alonne, in his deathly immobility, seems to be frowning at this anomalous display. 

Jaron places himself behind Mytha, and the king seems to take no notice.

-I can’t see him like this.- she whispers in the warrior’s ear.

-I fear nothing can be done.- Jaron lowers his shoulders and holds her hand. 

_I should be appalled_ : yet that big hold is welcome, warm, closer than Idrissa would have ever been. _My poor love_. The Iron King is a man that deserves to be taken care of. Jaron is sweet, he listens, but he’s not him. _And I’m not Alonne. I’ll never be Alonne_. Alonne is dead and her husband looks at him as if all color had gone off his life. 

She imagines herself laying on the Iron King’s side, taking care of him in his feverish state with maternal care, his golden eyes glittering of love towards his face celebrated by all. Her husband is handsome as she’s beautiful, and she does it all for his own good too. There's a deep crevice in his heart of iron: it’ll be her queenly duty to fill it up.


	14. The Last Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, a boy was born with sores of lava on his skin. Abandoned by all because of his dangerous nature, he was eventually adopted by the kind witch whose experiments had caused him his burden in the first place. She gave him the name of Quelos and gifted him a ring that would quench his ceaseless agony.   
> But her experiment were far from over, and nor would the boy's agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I changed CD's name from "Quelay" to "Quelos", the name used in the Daughters Of Ash mod. 
> 
> Starring Sacha Dhawan (Quelos of Izalith/Ceaseless Discharge), Lucy Liu (Mother Izalith), Tiffany (Chaos Witch Quelaag), Hyuna (Fair Lady Quelaan), Halle Berry (Quelana of Izalith), Rosario Dawson (Grana of Izalith), Taeyeon (Galana of Izalith), Kelly Reilly (Isalia of Izalith), Bridget Reagan (Ivana of Izalith), Donald Glover (Dragonslayer Ornstein) and Mads Mikkelsen (Gwyn, Lord of Cinders)

**Prompt #14:**  Survivor

 **Definition:**  N.1, Who survives others, or has escaped a bane from which others have found death

 **Characters:** Ceaseless Discharge, Witch of Izalith

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls I, Chaos Flame Disaster

 **Length:** 3.426 words. 

 **Trigger Warning:** death, corpse shown on screen, body horror

 

> "' _Cause they took your loved ones_
> 
> _But returned them in exchange for you_
> 
> _But would you have it any other way?_ "

( **Florence + The Machine,**[ ** _What The Water Gave Me_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am6rArVPip8))

 

 

Before Izalith there was no such thing as good. He remembers little of those fake gone far gone days, but there probably wasn’t much to remember. There were many faceless people screaming and racing in between the silver walls of a beautiful stone city. -Stay back or you’ll get scorched!- somebody was screaming, and he probably was somebody important, because once they had all ran off no one had came back for a long while. 

When they had returned they wore armors also made of silver, and their helms had horns on their top. He would have wanted to try one, could he even hope to be a knight. They had pretty spears that shone like their cuirasses and aimed them at him screaming _stay back, creature of fire, or_ _we’ll kill you_. 

He remembers the lava: you don’t forget that. Red, thick, clammy, burning his skin and eating it up with a noxious, rotten smell. And it kept pouring out with no restraint, redder, thicker – he remembers crying for help and screaming that it hurt so, so much.

Yet people would keep screaming, as if the lava was on them. _Yes, it’s true,_ he’d think, _I burned down your homes by mistake. At least you had homes, once._

And then he remembered the far-off voice of Mother Izalith: solid, cold, the opposite of him. She had the older sisters with herself: Ivana with the spear drawn in front of herself, Isalia with a vermillion flame quivering in her palm like a caged butterfly. 

-Stop it.- Mother Izalith said, and they’d all obey without a blink. A small, soft woman, with big dark eyes and thin, sculpted cheeks. She’d smile, slowly walking up to him, her moon-colored face lit by the warm light of the flames, and her raven hair loose around her head. She looked like something out of a dream – and a good one at that. 

-Hello, little one. Don’t be afraid, we’re friends. What’s your name?-

 

Everything had gone stable under Mother Izalith. Even the blight of lava – she hasn’t gone away, not even after a kiss on the forehead by his second mother – had gone still all of a sudden. At least, luckily, Mother knows why. 

-Lava is part of you, like your blood. When your heartbeat calmed down it stopped pulsating so hard. You can try to control it.-

She had answered to his confused stare with another smile. She’s good at it. She knows many things, Or maybe not, and it’s simply him who lacks knowledge. But Isalia, Ivana and the other five agree with him.

-Do you want something to wear?- Isalia asks. He shakes his head no, it’s just burn to a crisp and it’d make no sense. It’d not be nice from his part to ruin a gift from such nice women. 

-As you wish.- Mother Izalith says. He likes calling her that: there’s a sense of familiarity, of a domestic place, in that “Mother” followed by another name. -Let’s fix this lava, first.-

-Can we get him to know the sisters, then?- Ivana proposes. -I beg you, Mother. Quelaag would so want a little brother to care for.-

Mother smiles agin, but shortly. -Let’s not rush. He probably has a family of his own to come back to.- 

He bites his tongue, staring at the familiar red and hot trail dripping from his right arm. Such a nice, such a pretty lady, that seems to actually like him…

-No, miss.-

The three stagger. Mother Izalith comes forward, eyes agape. 

-What are you saying, little one?-

-I have no family. I have no one.- 

Mother Izalith sighs, looking at her eldest daughters. She really is as beautiful as she’s kind. She could be a queen, like the ones legends talk about. Sometimes a mummer would come to their village, and he’s hide behind the walls of the nearby houses to listen to some ballad. There was always some queen or princess, ably defeating monsters and foes. He so had wished to know one. Maybe she’d be able to heal him. 

-Are you a queen, ma’am? And they, princesses?-

Ivana laughs, Isalia sighs; Mother Izalith gives a sad smile. 

-No, little one. We’re witches, we can help you. How did you get those sores?-

-I don’t know.- He twiddles his thumbs and spins one around the other. -I was born with lava on me. I don’t know why. Nobody knows. But it burns so much.- 

The three look at one another. They speak no words, but he already got it all, and for the first time he has hope for things to go better. 

 

With Mother Izalith, memories begin. A daily feast for all five senses – the stinging odors of Galana’s potions, the deep tingle of Galana’s cithara, the sweet cherry pies made by Isalia, Ivana’s quick twirls with the spear in her hand, and the soft, fresh kisses Mother Izalith gives him, Quelaag, Quelaan and Quelana every evening. They’re his favorite part of the day, because his little sisters are by his side and Mother treats them just like him.

They’re very glad, for the first moment, to have a little brother. -I’m no longer the smallest!- Quelaag had cheered. Quelaan had tangled his hair as if he was a doll – he had dry, scorched hair the color of coal, but she liked them – Galana offered him sugar scones that made even lava feel sweet, Quelana had showed him her collection of spellbooks, and Grana had smiled at him from her oaken chair saying “hello, new little brother”. 

A myriad of first time: his first ball, his first gift – a garnet medallion in the shape of a Q – the first family dinner with Quelana’s roasted pork and nuts, and _the first day without lava on his skin_. 

-This ring is a gift for you.- Galana smiles, and gives him a silver chest, with a bas-relief displaying two dragons wrestling. -It’s enchanted and special: it’ll keep the pain away.- 

Lava was born with him, it had burned him and made him cry for as long as he remembers. _One isn’t born cursed by choice_ , Mother Izalith would say. _Sometimes fire clings to one of us, and never lets them go not even if they don’t want it anymore. We study the art of Pyromancy, and it can happen that some spark escapes our flames_. But with Mother Izalith, there’s no more pain to be find. That time it’s him that kisses her, and feels on top of the world seeing her smile. 

The first duel, with Ivana dancing in the middle of the arena, twirling her spear so fast it vanishes in thin air in a silver whirlwind. Her opponent wears a golden suit of armor, polished enough to blind, and a helm in the shape of a lion’s head covers his head. 

-That is Dragonslayer Ornstein.- Galana explains. She’s always nice to him, even more than the others, and always answers kindly to his questions. -He’s the best spearer of Lordran, and the captain of the Knights of Lord Gwyn.- 

-Who’s Lord Gwyn?- Quelos asks. 

He chose his own name: it starts with “Quel”, like his younger sister’s names, and fits without a hitch in the landscape of the family of the Witches of Izalith. 

-Soon you’ll know him.- Galana intervenes. -Lord Gwyn is the one who saved us all from darkness. He’s a powerful man, and loves us all.- 

-He has beautiful daughters.- Quelaag twiddles a red strand of hair around her index. -His second daughter shines like the Sun itself. She has hair like molten honey and skin the color of the prettiest aurora. The third born is black of hair, and as pale as milk. She was the one who let us make your ring, you know? She gave us a bracelet from her chests.-

Quelos nods, and applauds his sister: Ornstein has fallen to his knees and cries “I yield” from under his lion hem. Will he get mad, he thinks in terror. He instead bows to Ivana, and holds her hand as if they were best friends. 

 

In the end he’s allowed to see Lord Gwyn as well. He holds onto Mother Izalith’s wrist as they cross through the main hall of the royal palace. 

-My Lord, I introduce to you my last child. Do proceed, Quelos.-

Lord Gwyn is tall, wrinkled, and his silver beard reaches to his belly. In the middle of the hair an obsidian medallion sticks out, as big as his nail.

-He’s not one of us.- He observes with a critical stare. Mother Izalith places a hand on his shoulder. -He is now, My Lord. I saved him. He deserves a serene life.-

Lord Gwyn stares at him from top to bottom. Quelos stretches his back: Mother Izalith says that the protocol says it’s required to do so. He’s so tall, so grey, so severe: he’d never want him to take Mother’s place. He’s not her, nor will he ever be. 

-He doesn’t look like a warrior.-

-Not all of us are, My Lord.- Mother Izalith’s voice is as cutting as Isalia’s spear. -He’s a loyal youth, and we could put his loyalty to good use.- 

Gwyn shakes his head. He holds the fingers of one hand into those of the other: they’re thick, crusty, as grey as his face. It looks as if his entire body had been covered in layers upon layers of ash, thick and pasty, that stuck to his face and members until he himself had lost his color. Even the ring on his finger, gold with a flame inlay, barely reflects the light of torches and chandeliers. Quelos studies the face of the Great Lord, his tiny dark eyes, his hooked nose, his ash-colored beard; averts his gaze, searching for Mother Izalith’s big gentle eyes, and the familiar warmth of her fire. He just wants to _leave_. 

 

Lord Gwyn has done great things: his sisters have told him, and he loved to listen to them before sleeping. The story of the First Flame was his favorite. He had for long dreamed to see it – warm, kind, vital. He had known fire closely since he had been a child, but he had never had the occasion to truly feel it as a part of himself. It was a parasite to rip out, and there was no reason to think otherwise: it hurt, and it hurt everybody.

When Mother Izalith had said they’d have relit the First Flame, his sisters had held each other’s hands and exclaimed in surprise. He hadn’t: there was no reason to worry, not with Mother Izalith leading them all. 

-Do you not trust her?- he had risen from his stool and clenched his fists to his thighs. -Mother can do it, she’s the only one who can. She’ll save us all. We will help her.- 

He doesn’t know if it’s because of him, that the witches had accepted to follow her to the furnace. Yet there they are, in circle around a yellow, fluctuating fire, wrapped in their gold-hemmed tunics. All Quelos needs is a pair of chainmail trousers and cape, with metallic boots and thick iron gauntlets: he needs to feel the air on his skin to truly feel _alive_. 

That, and he’d burn anything else to a crisp. 

-Soul of the First Flame.-Mother Izalith cries, and Isalia and Ivana repeat her words. -Soul of the First Flame, we call upon you.- 

Quelos sits in the back alongside Quelana, Quelaag and Quelaan. Grana leans her arms forward in front of them, Galana holds the lit torch above her head. 

-Will Mother make it?- Quelana asks. 

-Quiet.- Quelaag orders. -Mother is concentrating.-

-Of course she will.- Quelaan says. Quelana simply nods, holding her sisters’ hands. Quelos grits his teeth, offended: how dare they even insult her?

-First Flame, rise from the darkness and engulf us in your warmth.- Mother Izalith screams.

-First Flame, gather the blight of life within yourself.- Isalia and Ivana repeat.

The flame rises as tall as a column, and the sparks look like yellow hands of bile, open to grab them all. Quelos jumps back and he doesn’t know why. He had seen his family manipulate fire for years. Isalia has found a way to rotate it like a whip. _And I, well, I wear it on me like a mantle. Why am I afraid?_

A scream rises from the Flame. Air leaves Quelos’ lungs.

A shaky white ring surrounds Mother Izalith like a noose, in mid-air. Candid strings hold onto Isalia and Ivana. All three scream their throats out. 

-Mother!- Galana screams, tossing her torch away. She races at them, her hood falling off her head. Quelaag and Quelaan hug onto one another. 

-No! Stay back!-

Mother Izalith’s voice seems to come off the depth of the earth itself. Mother’s arm, ripped from the white bond, points at the exit shakily. 

-What’s happening? What is that, Mother?- Quelos exclaims.

-Run!- Grana cries. Quelana lowers her good and races to the far-off light like a hare chased by a hound. _But what of Quelaag? Quelaan?_ Quelos sees his blonde little sister hold onto the other’s arm. _Why aren’t they running away? What’s happening?_

Something tugs at his cape: Grana’s hand. -Run, brother! Let’s save ourselves!-The witch drags him off with the strength of a person of arms. 

-Mother. We must get her out of there.- 

-Just run! She’d want so!- 

 _Mother would want so_. Quelos bites on his own tongue as the cries of Mother Izalith and her two eldest daughters fill the air of an inferno of agony. He holds his ring hand into a fist and races off with tears in his eyes. 

 

-Quelana! Galana! Where are you?- 

_Mother has failed. Mother burns in her own Shrine alongside Isalia and Ivana._

-Quelaag! Quelaan! Grana!-

_Mother has died. She made a disaster previously unheard of. Mother has died and the city of Izalith is falling apart._

He calls his sister’s names until he’s hoarse. He roams in between the crumbling palaces and the panicking people. -Fly, you fool! We’ll all die!- A man he bumps into screams. Quelos sends him off with a growl. _How dares he insult Mother’s work?_

And yet, even his perfect memories seem to change shape as the Chaos Flame builds far from him. other has failed. He has kept him safe in a cradle of paper, and it has now burnt out. 

He takes off his gauntlet, holds the special ring his sisters have made him in his hand – made with the silver from a bracelet belonging to Princess Filianore, a drop of amber in the middle shining as bright as the lava tormenting him – and looks at it in disgust. 

_All fake. All useless._

He raises his arm: the ring tinkles on the far-off rocks. A sudden blaze, like a last breath, rises for a moment from the cracks.

Tears mix up with the lava on Quelos’ cheeks and burn like a thousand embers. Izalith vanishes, fire loses its color, and his mother’s lovely face sinks into the darkness like all the rest.

 

When he eventually does find Grana, the witch screams as if she’s seen a monster on the prowl. Quelos blinks, freeing his eyes from dust.

-Grana?- he mumbles. He doesn’t feel like chatting with his mouth full of _that damned lava_.

His sister smiles sadly. -I’m here. Where had you gone? We’ve all ran off.- 

Quelos shakes his head. -Mother?-

At these words, his sister’s face goes as pale as a lightning. -Mother’s in there. Trapped.-

Quelos’s eyes block open. For a moment he believes, or hopes, his sister is joking.

-Others?-

-Isalia and Ivana are trapped with her. Quelaan, Quelaag and Quelana have ran to the swamp.-

 _It’s a joke_. Quelos tightens his fists, pouring lava on the rocks from inside his gauntlets. 

Grana bows her head. -I don’t know. I think she’s stuck in there. Rocks were falling from the ceiling, they may have hit her…- She wipes her tears before Quelos can think of coming any close. He has no intentions to burn her face anyway.

-Now what?-

-I’ll protect Mother, Isalia and Ivana.-

-Then I,- Quelos murmurs, but his voice sounds like the grunting of a thunder. -I take Galana.-

Grana shakes her head. -You’re crazy, little brother. That flame destroys people. Stay away from it. We can’t save Galana.-

-I can.- Quelos repeats. -I’ve been there.-

-You need healing, ‘Los. You’re very sick.- 

And I think I know why. He tightens his fists, squeezing lava to the ground. It feels as if a cinch of thorns is squishing his skin, but he has learned not to scream years ago. 

-Ring?- Grana jumps and stares at his hands. He takes off his gauntlets. -Don’t you have your ring, ‘Los?-.

Quelos shakes his head, sucking the lava in his mouth like nectar. -Thrown off. I couldn’t…-

-Find it.- Grana sighs. -I can search for it, if you want me to, but it’s very big in here. I’m so sorry, little brother.-

-Fool.- Quelos sighs. He stares at his empty finger, puts his gauntlets back on, bites on his own inner cheek. -I’m stupid.-

Grana places her hand on his cheek, in a clean spot. His sister has never been soft, and Quelos enjoys it like a blessing. At least she’s there, at least one.

-No.- Grana says. -Not stupid: survivor. Go get her, ‘Los. It can’t get any worse.- 

 

 _Survivor_ , he meditates. The Bed of Chaos is a whirlwind of yellow and vermillion sparks, like a tree caught in a drift. Quelos bites his tongue into bleeding – or so he believes, as lava muffles all flavors. He slips into the Shrine, as agile as a cat. If Isalia and Ivana are still there, he can’t see them. But he’ll mourn them when he’s done with Galana. _There’s light in here. I should see her_.

The roots are thick, rotted green, and they quiver in the air like tentacles. A whip with no master, striking nothing in search of a target. 

Galana’s body lays motionless against a wall. A puddle of dried blood spreads from her head. _Grana was right, she was hit_. No point in trying to shake her. Quelos runs at her sister, arms stretched in front of himself.

A blaze of flame brushes next to him as he throws himself on Galana’s corpse. _Mother, I beg you, don’t hurt me. It’s me_. A mad, fiery pain wraps itself around his right arm and the right side of his chest. No, wait: there’s no more right arm. 

-AH!- Quelos falls to his knees. Lava was a caress by comparison. -Mother, it hurts! Stop it!. Tears drip on the stone, as hot as all the rest. No way out this time. Screaming and crying, Quelos grabs Galana with his remaining arm and holds her close, covering her with his back. -Be quick.- he murmurs. -Be quick.-

Roots wrap around him like a blanket and pick him up. _So, shall I choke?_ He holds Galana with his arm and cradles her like a doll. His eyes are closed and he quivers, tears streaming with no control. He feels himself being carried higher and higher, and gently placed on a stone surface. 

When he reopens his eyes, the first thing he sees are the yellow tentacles twitching where his right arm used to be. He sits on the stone of the ledge to the way out, his eyes on the Bed of Chaos. The roots that have carried him up there slip back into their core like a waving hand. 

Lava drips down the ledge in a slow, soft stream. He holds Galana by the wrist in a far from courteous way and carries her off with himself, running and tripping as he goes up. Symmetrical hammers pierce on his head from both sides.

It hurts too much to talk. _I drag Galana out and I weep as much as I want to_. -Grana!- he screams. -Grana!-

-I’m coming, ‘Los!-

The witch’s shadow sticks out from behind the wall. She takes no step forward: she’s good, wants to keep both arms. Only at the top of the ledge, when they’re facing one another, Quelos can see her damp face.

-Give her to me! I’ll take her.- Grana’s voice is broken in sobs. -But what have you done? Are these _horns_ , on your head? Quelos…-

-I survive.- he says, and he smiles in between tears. 


	15. Sympathy For The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the personal mentor to the young Prince Lothric, Pontiff Sulyvahn has his deal of authority on the city's inhabitants. One of them especially, a young handmaiden to the Queen – a Queen the Pontiff hates, as she has the heart of the man he loves – seems to feel for him the same way he does to His Majesty. But unlike the woman she serves, this handmaiden is gullible enough to serve a purpose in his plans. She has an interest in angels, it appears: what kind of religious figure would not want to help her get any closer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Richard Armitage (Pontiff Sulyvahn), Katherine Langford (Gertrude, the Heavenly Daughter) and Ciara Renee (Kendra, Dancer of the Boreal Valley)

******Prompt #15:**  Miracle

**Definition:**  N.1, Fact that is retained due to a supernatural event, as it crosses over the limits of normal predictability of happening or goes beyond the possibilities of human action. 

**Characters:** Pontiff Sulyvahn, Gertrude the Heavenly Daughter

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls III, Kingdom of Lothric; Pre-Dark Souls III, Post-Conquest of Anor Londo and death of Gwyndolin

**Length:** 3.707 words. 

 

> “ _In the land of gods and monsters,_
> 
> _I was an angel._
> 
> _Living in the garden of evil,_
> 
> _Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed._
> 
> _Shining like a fiery beacon_ ”
> 
> ( **Lana del Rey** , [**_Gods And Monsters_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nRVHYvBYDUs&frags=pl%2Cwn))

 

 

Lothric is breathtakingly big, and the dark stones of the walls emanate a dry and sticky heat against his sandals. The blue brocade cape rustles silently against the floor, a relaxing hiss that loses itself in the silent air.

A drip of sweat sneaks into the hair of Pontiff Sulyvahn's beard. He rubs his elbow on his chin, disgusted. He’d give his best holy goblet – a platinum marvel the size of a beer keg, plastered in a  lapis lazuli inlay with a pattern of half moons – to have a little bit of the cold of Irithyll over there. He’ll never understand how did Vordt and Kendra get used to it so quickly: sometimes he wants to rip his skin right off his body. 

The Pontiff removes a raven curl from his eyes and adjusts his heavy amethyst necklace on his chest. He’ll have to be impeccable, for the evening mass.  He feels himself quiver at the thought of having Oceiros in front of his eyes again – first row, clad in his usual blue, _those sublime glaucous hair so straight and glossy_. He holds one hand into the other, smiling as his bracelet tinkle. 

A polite knock shakes him off his thoughts. -Enter.- Sulyvahn orders. Thin steps close by behind his back. Sulyvahn turns around, and his eyes meet a pale, minute body, wrapped in a white tunic. 

-I ask for forgiveness, Eminence.-

-It’s alright.- Her voice is gentle, timid. -You’re Gertrude, aren’t you?- 

Oval face, full lips, wavy brown hair. Her eyes are a swampy light green, and they glisten at the light of the torches. 

-I am.- the youth answers. -Handmaiden of Her Grace Queen Gwynevere. I’m here to inform you the morning mass will be deployed: their Majesties can’t attend.-

Sulyvahn pushes the tip of his foot on the floor. -And what for, if you care to tell me?- he asks, and speaking in an affable tone feels as hard as a millenary duel.

Gertrude shows her teeth. -The king and queen are upset. It’s been three days since they’ve last had news of Prince Lorian. The Demon Prince has escaped into the mountains; Lorian and his garrison have run after it, but it’s not known where they’ve ended up at. His Majesty the King has locked himself in his rooms since this morning and has caned out the servants that have come with lunch.- 

My poor, poor Oceiros: I’d know well how to console him, if only he let me come close. Sulyvahn sighs deeply. Only a complete idiot would send a boy about eighteen of age against a Demon Prince: then again, that boy would also be a complete idiot to accept the deed. Losing a child is the worst of grieves, for a parent. Lorian is a good boy, but it’s Lothric he needs. On the other hand, the idea of seeing the king’s _perfect white and blue face_ defaced by crying is enough to unleash a wave of disgust into the Pontiff’s belly. 

-So much pain, for His Majesty.- he sighs. -Come, Gertrude: you can enjoy yourself with me, for the disturbance.- 

Gertrude takes one step back, eyes agape. Her hands tremble. -With you? Me, Eminence? You’d allow me?-

As if I gave her a diamond: she’s almost tender, with eyes so big and glittering. Sulyvahn lends her his arm and feels her tremble under the fabric of his tunic as she holds onto it.

-I know the Lothric Divine Tome all the way through. I promise I won’t bore you.- 

-Never have I feared it.- Sulyvahn bows down to look into her eyes, and observes her pleased as she retreats. 

-I had known from the start you were brighter than the others. Few, here in Lothric, have shown any interest towards things of faith.- 

Gertrude shakes her head. -Not that it surprises me. With such an atheist at rule… I’m surprised they’d even let you worship in peace, Eminence.-

_An atheist indeed: but handsome and gifted enough to have all the rest fade away_. Sulyvahn feels his cassock tense at the groin at the thought of the king. _Oceiros, what are you doing to me?_ He had touched him once, one single time, just to scare him off, and day after day he fell deeper into a desire for more. Shapes like those of his wife deserved a worthy counterpart: in his eyes it was Gwynevere’s own, voluptuous forms, that looked dull compared to her husband’s frail body, the cold blue of his hair and eyes, his diaphanous skin and his _gifts_. 

_You’ll be mine, like it or not. And when I’m done, not even Lothric and Lorian will be able to get in the way: you’ll watch the Flame fade away in my arms_. 

He holds onto Gertrude’s arm with his fingers and leads her though a side corridor of the chapel. He folds his mouth at the weak light of the torches. _It’s like entering a catacomb, rather than a chapel_. Irithyll wasn’t so dark, but it’d be friendlier even if it was. 

-The chapel is pretty.- the girl comments. -It’d deserve better care.-

-The crown spends its money the way it prefers.- Sulyvahn smiles forcedly. -In the end, no one can go on without believing in anything. Faith can be a marvel in the right hands.- 

-Your hands, Eminence.- Gertrude isn’t even looking at him. She leans her head on his shoulder, sighing. _A little girl, fawning over a Pontiff rather than a knight_. -you can’t imagine how important it is for me. Like a refuge, of sorts. I believe you would understand.- 

She sighs, rubbing her cheek on Sulyvahn’s own shoulder. She’s soft, pleasant, and most of all innocent. -You’d be the only one to understand.-

Sulyvahn holds his arm around the girls’ arm. She’s opening herself to him with childlike wonder; he feels her tense at his touch, and even in the dim light he can see her red cheeks. _Is this what I look like next to His Majesty? If Oceiros craved me like this, I’d be the happiest of all clerics_.

-Poor girl.- he murmurs. -I imagine it’s not easy to be a handmaiden.- 

-Oh?_ Gertrude jumps. She opens her eyes, blinks with long eyelashes. -It is indeed. Few understand, but you seem to. I suppose it’s also not easy for you be a man of religion in here.-

Sulyvahn sighs. -It’s easier than it seems. Faith helms me keep a smile on my face.- 

The girl blinks again. 

-You will find, Gertrude, that faith is the most powerful of arms. No shield can deflect its blows. No blade can parry it. Faith is powerful because it strikes on the brains of the men and convinces them to follow them, hypnotizing them like snakes do, but with the voice of an angel.-

-Angels…- Gertrude sighs like a child listening to a great ballad. -Do they really exist, Eminence? Have you ever seen them?-

Sulyvahn turns his lips at these words. _Why are we talking angels now?_ A curious girl indeed, but unpredictable too. 

-It’s very important, for you.- 

-I too have the right for a miracle, don’t you believe? I spent my life in here… I too had dreams, what do you think?- 

She’s not a girl, she’s an open book. -Go ahead and talk, dear sister. Don’t be ashamed. Only the chapel walls are listening to us.- 

Gertrude drops to her knees, brushing the carpet with her hair. Hadn’t Sulyvahn held back in time, he’d have stepped on her hand: he stares at her from on up, astonished, as she stands up and grabs onto his hand, stroking it with her mouth like a rose.

-No one ever listened to me. No one listens to a handmaiden. There’s only faith, for us.- 

-And angels too.- Sulyvahn strokes her chin with his fingers. The tips of Gertrude’s lips fold upwards, all her body quivers. -Yes, I’ve seen them indeed. And they’ve taught me some marvelous miracles. Try to imagine it, Gertrude. Rainfalls of light, to lose your eyes into.- 

Gertrude holds onto his hands. -Marvelous.- Her eyes are closed, and it looks as if she’s in a trance. -Rainfalls of light. How I wish i could use miracles.- 

-Well, any cleric can.- Sulyvahn smiles. He strokes her hands, smooth and pink. -And a miracle of yours copied make wonders, I know.-

-Oh…-

The handmaiden’s voice shatters into a gentle swoon. The hold of her hands escapes that of Sulyvahn’s: Gertrude’s own cheek is against the Pontiff’s chest, and she hugs onto his body, eyes closed, a still smile on her lips.

-Miss, please.- Sulyvahn holds back his laughter. -Such intimacy, in a holy place.- 

Gertrude opens her eyes and pulls herself back. -Do forgive me. I beg you. The moment overtook me.- 

Sulyvahn opens his mouth to answer, but a new thought reaches his mind. He walks to a shelf and opens a drawer. _Here, I believe it was_. Old, dusty, but probably still functional. And he finally sees it, in a corner, covered to the handle by a scarlet and gold rag. He lifts the fabric, studying the grey surface of his desired object. He holds it and shakes it: a fainted, thin ring spreads around the drawer. 

-What of this one, miss?-

Gertrude stares at the bell with agape eyes. -For me?-

-For you. I’ll have to modify it, to give the sound back its clarity, but it should be effective at least for simpler miracles.-

-A chime of my own.- Gertrude’s voice breaks. -Such magnificence, Eminence. You truly are a holy man.-

_And you’re a naive little fool, but your devotion will be so of use_.

 

A door slams open, a frenzy of steps sound in between the walls of the corridor, louder and louder. A dark-skinned woman races at them, brown hair dancing around her face as she runs. She salutes the Pontiff with a quick bow, and he bows back, his smile widening. 

-Kendra.- Gertrude coldly says. 

-Where were you?- the warrior inquires. -Hadn’t you heard the celebration? His Majesty has finally left his rooms.- 

A chill runs into Sulyvahn’s veins. _I had so missed his sweet face_. -Please, do relax. What is happening?-

-He’s coming!- Kendra exclaims. -Prince Lorian returns victorious. He has defeated the Demon prince. He did it. We’ll be celebrating with a great banquet, and the Queen will have to be prepared and dressed. Do move, little girl. She’ll be needing you soon.- 

-She’ll be needing me once she’s done hugging the little prince.- Gertrude smirks. -Me and His Eminence were discussing important matters.- 

Sulyvahn places his hand on the girls’ shoulder. _Thank you, Kendra. You’re always there when I need you_. -Please, Gertrude. Go fulfill your duties. We’ll have all due time to discuss angels and miracles. I’m always there for a chat with such a clever girl.- 

Kendra tilts her mouth, like to hold on a shot of vomit. Luckily, Gertrude has her back to her. -Your mercy is immense. I’ll be back when it’s all done. Please, understand: I too have to work to live. I can’t wait to have your chime.- 

_A lonely little girl, hiding in faith like a rabbit chased by a fox. She won’t even notice the chime she holds onto is kissed by the Deep_. Sulyvahn strokes Gertrude’s hair and tucks it behind her ear. -Now go. Keep your position.-

Gertrude bows, walking back to the corridor. -I can’t stand that girl.- Kendra sighs. -How does Her Majesty the Queen not stab her ears whenever she hears her voice?-

Sulyvahn pats her shoulder. -She has her ways.- 

 

 Sulyvahn tosses and turns in his blankets: the far-off clock strikes three, and the moon of Irithyll seems to be staring at him with blame. And he can’t fault her for being so mad: Gwyndolin has died of the worst of deaths. He clenches his pained teeth. Aldrich is a good mommy’s boy, but that Rosaria has nothing of her mother. He’ll however remember to visit Yorshka, the following day. If only was that tower less uncomfortable.

_Those blue eyes: impossible not to recognize them. You were so handsome, my Oceiros, before disfiguring yourself this way. I couldn’t stand watching them close forever_. 

He curls up, shutting his eyes. Darkness is kind, but brief: a yellow light, the size of the tip of a needle, pierces through his eyeballs. 

-Ah!- When he reopens his eyes, Sulyvahn is no longer in his bedroom. A bright void surrounds him, overruns him, and acts as a pavement to his bare feet. He looks around, but he sees nothing but the light, thick and yellow, wherever he turns.

-Pontiff.- a voice whispers. 

A winged form closes by, wings like spears and ready to strike. They have a slender, humanoid body, and a mass of straight hair forming arabesques in the luminous emptiness. They land in front of him, taking off their helm and throwing it away.

Sulyvahn blinks, his hands devoid of the two Greatswords leant in front of his face. The blue and golden armor gives the girl’s body a curvaceous shapes, that clashes against the memories he held of hers. Her candid, feathered wings are as wide as tents, and they produce a booming wave of wind at every flap.

He forces himself to stay calm. -Gertrude. You look different.-

-I’m with Nito, now.- The ex-handmaiden smiles. -It’s even prettier than flight.-

Gertrude lifts herself up a palm and pirouettes around herself, wings wrapping around her like a cocoon. She lands in front of him, on the tips of her feet. Her brown hair dance around her face like kelps stroked by the current.

Sulyvahn stretches his neck, lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the light.

-Do you have anything to show me, little Gertrude?-

The girl blinks, slowly. She lends him a tiny hand, as smooth as a recently forged sword. 

-Come with me. Fly. You can do it.-

Sulyvahn unfolds his own wings – so small, so scrawny, compared to the girl’s feathers. He feels like a bee in front of a hawk. At least he’s as fast as her, but would rather not relish in that certainty. _I don’t even know where we’re going, and here it’s all light. So what? This is a dream anyway_. 

-I see you looking well, Gertrude.- he says. -The cage hasn't ruined you.- 

-I felt comfortable. I was never scared, not even for a second.- Gertrude stares at him from the side. -My angels were watching over me. You were right that time, Sulyvahn. They’re magnificent.-

Sulyvahn shakes his head: he doesn’t even remember what he had said.

-But you’re dead.-

-He came to me. The Darklurker offered me his hands, told me “come with me”. He had nothing left to teach me, nor I to teach my followers. Nito lent me his hand of bones and told me “welcome, I was waiting for you”.-

The girl lands in front of him, hands stretched for a hold that Sulyvahn doesn’t want to give her. Gertrude’s hair spread around her head, soft.

-All because of you: so thank you, Sulyvahn.- 

Gertrude leans forward, eyes big and bright: she grabs Sulyvahn’s cheeks and kisses him on the lips.

A sudden chill overtakes the Pontiff. Sulyvahn’s wings flap and wave helplessly, his hands push against the girl’s chest, but Gertrude is as solid as a column in the temple, and her lips are coal.

When she does let him go, he feels on the verge of passing out. 

-Whatever does this mean?- he whispers. Gertrude opens her arms. 

-You yourself forced a kiss or two out of His Majesty King Oceiros. I just gave you what was coming to you. After all, I wanted it so much when I was younger.-

Gertrude is giggling: Sulyvahn shakes his head and tightens his fists. _It’s a dream, and a cretin dream_. 

-You impudent little girl.-

-I’m not a little girl!- Gertrude leaps forward, wings wrapping around them both like the crown of a willow tree. -I was stupide and naive once, but the angels have opened my eyes. I’m wiser than you think, Sulyvahn. And I decided to award myself for it with a kiss from you.-

The Pontiff staggers back, confused. With her wings unfolded, hair lifted in mid-air, Gertrude stands over him like a wyvern. She’s not holding onto her precious silver chime – the scholars had done a fine work, covering it in crystals and magic _stuff_ – yet he knows she’d tear him to bits if she felt so. 

-I know your desire involves another one.- Gertrude grins. -But as I said, I’m no longer a dumb handmaiden. I know it was you, who put wings on me through that chime. You whispered a bunch of pretty words in my ear, and I fell right into them.-

Sulyvahn opens his mouth, but emits no sound. _It’s a stupid dream: why am I even acting as if I was in danger?_

-If you want to trap me here with you, it’s a decision you’ll soon forget.- 

-Me? Trap you? It’d be a hypocritical move. I just want to warn you. Not everyone is as naive as I am. Lothric isn’t as fragile as the king you lusted for. And the moon is watching over you. But your future dreams will be calmer, will they? Nothing I say bothers you.-

_And it’s true_ , Sulyvahn thinks. _One thing mattered to me, in Lothric, and I couldn’t have it_. He holds his right hand in his left: now he’s gone, and he’ll never regain his sanity. _The Bighat retained his human semblances despite his madness: he surely wasn’t a thousandth as handsome as him, nor did he possess a pinch of his temperament_. 

-I thought you hated Lothric.- he says. 

-I learned to appreciate it. This is indeed a miracle.- Gertrude flaps her wings slowly and scrapes her finger on her golden tigh cuirasse.

-And while we’re at it: if you do see Kendra, apologize to her from my part. I’ve always mistreated her, and she didn’t deserve it.- the girl smiles, glittering eyes. -At least she stood up to me. But something tells me you ruined her too.- 

-I didn’t give her a treatment of favor.- There was only one man worthy of it, and now he’s a man no more. -You’d understand, if you only had a bit of ambition.-

Sulyvahn holds his hands to his thighs and clenches his teeth. He wasn’t ready for a fight, not that way. 

-I’m fine.- the girl hisses.

-Yet you remain a hypocrite. Where did your misunderstood nature go?-

-When you grow wings, you learn to see far away, and what felt huge then becomes small and easy to deal with.- Gertrude polishes the skirt on her armor. -Kendra was much smarter than you, and way kinder too. Don’t you ever feel remorse for what you’ve done to her?-

Sulyvahn says nothing. She doesn’t even want him to answer: he already knows the answer.

-I will welcome her at Nito’s catacombs, and Vordt too, and all the other poor disgraced ones you’ve tarnished.- Gertrude pulls her wings behind her back. -Nito is kind, he has room for them all. Maybe he also has room for you.- 

-You really have changed, Gertrude.- Sulyvahn proclaims. Gertrude shakes her head. She looks tired, as if she had spent days upon days in an endless duel. 

-If I still had my chime, I’d so show you how I’ve changed.- 

-I doubt it not.- Sulyvahn smiles. Gertrude steps backwards. She constantly looks on the verge of attacking, and Sulyvahn feels _naked_ without his Greatswords. _But this is a dream, she can’t hurt me_. Yet he wishes for nothing but a chance to no longer be there. 

-I thank you again, Pontiff Sulyvahn. You’ve used me like them all, but you’ve also taught me great things. A privilege Kendra and Vordt were robbed of.- 

She twirls in mid-air. -A rain of light, to lose your eyes at. But light needs darkness to be brighter, does it not? This is why they call it the Darklurker. This is why he summoned pillars of light. Do you want to see them?-

_No_ , Sulyvahn wants to say: but before he can even speak, Gertrude has already lifted her hands. Light rains on him like a torrent of arrows, and burns like a thousand coals. The pontiff shuts his eyes, tense. Gertrude’s voice sounds distant. 

-I have dueled against the Scholars of the Grand Archives, the Queen you hated and the King you craved, with just my wings and a chime; I have lead an army of knights that worshipped me like a Goddess; I came to know mysteries that not even the great Logan had managed to unveil, but I have never caused pain to another by my own volition. You did, poor Sulyvahn. I pity you. Wake up no, rule your Irithyll, because you’re done with me.-

She covers her mouth with her hand and sends him a flying kiss. Sulyvahn shuts his eyes, as if a far-off arrow was coming to strike him. The flapping of Gertrude’s wings fades off, weaker yet weaker. 

 

He wakes up in his bed, hair matted around his head. The snow of Irithyll glistens from behind the open door of the balcony, and forms a puddle on the tiles. Sulyvahn sits up, chilled, and wraps in the first blanket he comes across. 

_Gertrude has given it to me_. His own wings stick out from behind the wool and fold themselves under his body, wrapping themselves around him like a transparent cape. A tired sigh escapes the Pontiff’s lips. He stands up, wrapping himself in his blanket, his lace nightgown hissing against the floor. 

He sticks his hands out from the window, allowing the snow to cover them; he pulls them back, rubbing his wet palms on his face. The cold penetrates into his head, and seems to slither up to his brain. He takes a deep breath and admires the far-off city. _His_ city.

He opens the closet cabin and pulls out his cassock and slip. Yorshka awaits far away, with her blue eyes. 

 


	16. The King With The Cleaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring a sunken city of poison, as a favor towards a queen he feels no affection for, for the first time without the helping hand of his beloved Raime: even a knight as loyal and brave as Velstadt can hardly get through it. And when he comes across the wretched, rotten fate of King Gryth of Shulva and his people, not even his bellmace makes him feel safe.  
> But King Gryth has a still living wife – as brave as she's beautiful, as wrathful as she's hurt – and no knight refuses comfort to a grieving queen. And to make the matter slightly better, despite being Nashandra's sister, Velstadt feels for her a fondness the other doesn't deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Brendan P. Bell (Velstadt, the Royal Aegis), Teyonah Parris (Elana, the Squalid Queen), Hugo Weaving (King Vendrick) and Blake Lively (Queen Nashandra).

******Prompt #16:**  War

**Definition:**  N.1, Clash between states, or within a state, conducted with weapons SIN. Conflict: earthly, aerial, atomic w.; liberation w.; to declare w; enter w. 

**Characters:** Velstadt, the Royal Aegis; Elana, the Squalid Queen

**Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls II, Post-Conquest of Shulva

**Length:** 3.716 words. 

**Trigger Warning:** body horror (the Rotten is present), PTSD

 

> “ _And I've paid all my dues for what I've done_
> 
> _And I showed you that I love you more than once_
> 
> _Theres nothing left there to decide_ ”

( **Kelis** ,[ **_Trick Me_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zI339U6GS9s))

 

 

_A knight of King Vendrick cannot fear the dark_. Velstadt holds on tight to his bellmace and slips down another step of slippery rock. The soles of his boots emit a gurgling noise in contact with the moss, and he’s sure he’ll throw up eventually. He would gladly give a big shake to the ignominious cretin that decided to build a city – _no, a_ Sanctum _City: as if it made this place any less gross_ – underground, in a hole full of mice that makes the sewers of Drangleic look like a most luxurious palace. He’s not scared of mice, nor of the poor deprived that throw at him in his descent, but he’d give all his armor for a string of light. 

_Raime would have no fear_. He had always been better than him in everything –not better enough not to mock him relentlessly for such a stupid fear, of course. He’d have thrown himself down to the bottom of that dark Sanctum City, pounding whatever threat he’d come across with his sword. Even better it’d have been to go together. 

But now Raime’s gone, and Velstadt feels incapable to hold his balance on his legs. He has no intention to let whatever’s in there become the last thing he ever sees. 

-His Majesty owes me a big one.- he mumbles. 

He had almost screamed when he had seen the terrorized expression, the reddened eyes, the trembling lips of the Queen. That couldn’t have been her: Nashandra never cries. Nashandra is as impassible as a skull, and even when she’s smiling she barely tilts her lips upwards, as if lifting them up was a strain. King Vendrick was standing by her side and held onto her hands, massaging them with his thick, callous thumbs.

Nashandra’s bun was undone, the cuffs of her dress damp. Velstadt had been ashamed of his shivering as he knelt. -Your Grace?-

She had leant onto the throne, as if to the point of passing out. Vendrick had held onto her shoulders, cradling her. He had never seen any man look so worried, yet even his face looked composed compared to that of his consort.

-I had a vision.- Nashandra had said. -My sister Elana is in danger.-

-Elana?- Velstadt had been unable to say anything else. He had come to know Alsanna, the pale raven-haired ruler of Eleum Loyce, alongside her own husband, but no Elana had ever escaped the Queen’s lips. 

-The Queen of Shulva, the Sanctum City. Spouse to King Gryth.- Vendrick had intervened, but Nashandra had shook her head, and the king had gone quiet like a child caught into a foul act.

-She's in danger, I feel it. I want you to reach her and make so we offer her the help she requires.-

And Velstadt had said yes, as always. Had he known what was expecting him, he would have passed off as sick: he’d have – maybe – felt sorry for Nashandra, but that so-called city seems beyond all help. 

 

The cave leads to a trail. Velstadt shakes his feet like a wet dog to rid them of the black sludge coating his boots. If Raime was there, it’d not even be visible on his black armor. _What if I did throw up after all? There’s no one here anyway who could tell Vendrick or Nashandra_. The Queen would be far from pleased; but neither has Velstadt understood what his king had ever seen in here. _So we’re evenly matched_.  

He’s bent over forward when a deep wail sounds from behind the entrance to the cave. Velstadt shakes himself up and picks up his bellmace from the wall. -Who’s there?- he screams. -Identify yourself!- 

He slips into the passage, admiring the circular cave in which he has found himself. _Light, at last. Red light_. Small beacons are lit in the round pavement; statues of stone, humanoid, with egg-shaped heads, stare at him with empty eyes. A man lays on the ground and leans his hand forward. Another man lays on his back. Velstadt walks closer, and his hold on his bellmace shakes the moment he _notices it_. 

They’re fifteen at least, reddened skin and featureless faces – like corpses escaped from a pyre; and they are melted together, huddled up on one another in a dark, wobbly pulp. Their faces dizzily stare at him, not any lass hollow than those statues; a swarm of skeletal arms leans in his direction. Fifteen mouths open up and scream in his face. 

-Begone!- Velstadt’s voice is as shaky as his legs. _I’m passing out, Gods, I’m passing out_. -What are you? What are you?- 

Necromancy, no doubt; the bellmace emits a faint tinkle, but Velstadt shakes anyway. _What is that?_ The quivering bodies have beardless, rough faces identical to one another. 

Velstadt slams the bellmace on the ground. and the creatures cover their ears with their hands like one singular man. -Back off!- Velstadt cries. -Begone!- 

He raises the bell again, but doesn’t lower it: steps are closing by behind him. He would turn around, but that thing is so close, so flabby: the idea of losing sight on it chills him. The creature reeks of death, dried up blood and excrements; he would shut his nose, but he needs two hands to hold his precious bellmace. 

-Who’s there?- Velstadt babbles. -You should run. I can handle this.- 

-No!- a female voice orders. Velstadt adjusts his hold on the bellmace. 

He turns around, one mere second: a brown-skinned woman in a dark dress slowly steps to him. _Where did she come out of?_ -Stay back, miss. It’s highly dangerous.- Velstadt exclaims, but the stranger walks past him: she pulls out an axe the size of a banner, and slams the handle on the ground three times. She wears a ragged purple dress, and thick dreadlocks dance around her face as she moves. 

-No.- she has the firm tone of a trainer of hunting dogs. -No. ’Tis not for you. Back off.- 

-I beg your pardon?- Velstadt asks, but the newcomer doesn’t avert her gaze from the _thing_ at her feet. _She’s not talking to me, but to_ them. 

-Elana.- one of them whispers. He has a sunken beggar face, and dirty black curls frame his skull. -Elana.- the other wretches repeat. -Elana. Elana. Elana.- 

-The queen?- Velstadt staggers. Her teeth are clenched, her eyebrows folded in a careful expression. 

Those on the ground open their gaping black mouths, stretching their milky hands to Elana. -No.- she repeats calmly. -You will stay where you are.- 

Fifteen heads nod in unison, and a sudden, horrifying thought, runs through Velstadt’s mind. _It’s one thing, thinking in unison_. 

-Elana.- the curly-haired man repeats, and covers his face with his hands like a wounded bug. All the others imitate his gesture, sobbing and wailing. _Elana, queen Elana_ : she has the same iron skin of Nashandra, if she can face such a horror without a blink. 

The directly interested turns to him and raises her axe to his face. -If you’re a graverobber, I advise you to leave at once. For your own good.- 

-Graverobber?- Velstadt shakes his head. -No, please. I’m a knight of Drangleic and Queen Nashandra sent me. You are her sister, aren’t you?- _Even though they look nothing alike_ – but on the other hand, not even the raven-haired flat-nosed Alsanna looked like her, and none of the three looks any less queenly. 

Elana staggers back, the hold of her dark hand trembling on her axe. -Ah, Nashandra.- Her voice shakes, but her back is straight. -She did send someone after all. I imagined not they’d show up. But there’s not much else to be done. Let us leave now, knight. What’s your name again?- 

-Velstadt, Your Majesty; but outside of Drangleic I’m known as the Royal Aegis. Sworn to King Vendrick and Queen Nashandra.- 

Elana pulls back her axe and removes a dreadlock off her face. -Velstadt. Now leave, it won’t stay calm for long. He does it to protect their own. He has always been too good.- 

Velstadt nods. His mouth is dry, his hair stuck to his head by a film of sweat. His heart thunders in his chest, like a bell being shook by a whirlwind. He follows Elana along a corridor, bellmace tight in his slippery glove. 

-In the name of the great Drangleic, what was that?- he pants. 

Elana turns around, smilingly sadly. -That is Shulva, knight.- 

 

Elana walks slowly, her shadow trembling at the light of the torches. She has thin, graceful hands, that Velstadt wishes he could hold during their walk in the dark. He’s shaking still: _fool, you fool, the queen needs you and you are shaking_. He sighs, leaning onto the wall. His cape has slipped on his right shoulder, and the bellmace feels as heavy as a whole mountain, and his eyes are humid and damp under his helm. _If Raime could see me, there’d be bitter laughter_. 

The rock folds onto itself like a ramp of stairs, scarse torches light up the purple stones with piercing light, and long shadows, as thin as the stretched out fingers of that creature, dipanate from the corners and seem to cling to the steps with their last strengths. 

_Only a complete imbecile would build a city down here_. Was Elana in a better mood, he could ask her for some explanation – yet, he realizes as they descend, he’s not sure how many answers he wants. 

_That is Shulva, knight_. 

Velstadt’s foot slips on a bunch of rocks, scratching with a rake noise. 

-Are you tired?- Elana asks. Velstadt stumbles and stretches himself, putting his cape back in place. 

-No, Your Majesty.- he pants. Elana walks closer and stares at him from a distance. _I’ve never been a good liar_. 

-If you like, we can sit down and stop. Nobody ever comes here anymore, except graverobbers.- 

Velstadt sighs in relief and watches Elana curl up against the wall and removing her dreadlocks from her face. She has a delicate, elegant voice he already likes. 

_Tell her something: one doesn’t leave a queen in silence_. -Your axe is gorgeous.- he tries. Elana attempts a smile. 

-I thank you. All of us are fighters.- 

-I’ve often seen your sister Nashandra fight. She’s as robust as marble, and she welds her scythe like a third arm.- _Even Vendrick staggered, whenever we’d cross blades at tournaments. Yet she too had to surrender against Raime_. Whenever the Raven would enter the arena, no opponent had any chance. It felt as if he carried new strength from every blow. 

-Nashandra has always been a fine warrior indeed, but our younger sisters are no better. Alsanna is as agile as wind with her sword in her arm, and Nadalia’s chime sounds like a cry in the night.- 

-Who’s Nadalia?- Velstadt blinks. -You’ve never mentioned her.- 

Elana staggers back, a hand on her mouth. She also blinks. -Few people know her.- 

-Is she a queen, like the three of you?- 

-I intend not to talk about her. She doesn’t like people mentioning her.- 

-I respect it. Forgive my curiosity.- Velstadt bows his head, stroking the copper of his arm. Another sister of Nashandra roaming around: he silently asks himself who she will look like. Would she also have the honeyed smile and velvety voice of the blonde Queen of Drangleic? He shakes his head, as if to swat away the thought: the world doesn’t need two Nashandras. Alsanna was pale, polite and followed every gesture of King Amar with her eyes. _And then there’s her_. Velstadt studies the queen’s oval face, her full lips, and her violet eyes – he has never seen so intense ones. 

-I beg for forgiveness. I felt curiosity at the mention of a chime.- 

-I understand.- Elana nods. -You have a peculiar weapon. Unique, if I do say so myself.- 

_Raime always mocked me. “Prayer! Prayer! The mass begins, come all, Father Velstadt awaits!”. I wonder if he’s still laughing, now that I defeated him_. Elana’s purple eyes are stuck to his bellmace, they follow its circumference as if the sweetest of poems was carved on the copper.

-I forged it myself, a long time ago.- Velstadt throws in. 

Elana smiles, faintly, as if her cheeks weighed a tonne. -I adore music. Shall I hold it?- 

Velstadt caresses the bronze handle. It faintly glistens in the darkness of the cavern. It looks like a small sun, distractedly placed in his bell. 

-For you.- 

-Maybe you would have defeated that accursed Sir Yorgh. I would find it rather displeasing to steal knights away from my sister, but I would have appreciated to have you among my ranks.- 

_I do not like Nashandra: was she a queen with no husband, I would leave her to rot and serve this one in her place_. Velstadt feels like an idiot for thinking this way – I barely even know her – but if not even the nausea for the underground city bothers him anymore, there has to be a reason. _Sir Yorgh: was this Nashandra was worried about?_

-If someone had tried to harm you, I’m here to protect you.- 

-Worry not. I decapitated him with my own axe before you arrived.-

Velstadt sighs in relief. -Is there anything else, then?-

-Have you seen Shulva, Velstadt?- Elana asks with seriousness. 

_In the name of the beautiful Anor Londo, how could I have not?_ Velstadt feels a bout of vomit at the thought of that repugnant vision. He had hoped, he admits, to bury it in the depths of his memory, far away from the present: only then does he realize it’d have never been possible. 

-My beloved Gryth lays in there alongside my people. My servants, that would comb and moisture my hair every morning. The escort knights of my beloved. The court singers, that so many times had accompanied me whenever I sung to sweeten Sinh’s slumber.- 

_Who’s Sinh? What’s going on?_ Questions pulsate on Velstadt’s lips like a swarm of horsefly, but he dares not to talk. Elana already has enough within herself, that seem to be biting her body at every word. Living under there probably did her no good, let along caring for _that thing_. 

Yet Elana speaks, faintly, as if she cared about nothing anymore. She tells him of a sunken city, a sunless stone shrine, but not any less warm; of a slumbering dragon, and a crew of knights obsessed by its blood, and of its cries when the spear pierced through his back. _And of a poisoned king, and an executioner queen_. 

-You can reprobate my wish for vengeance, but you can’t keep me from pursuing it.- 

When she reaches the end of the story, Elana looks worn out, as if while talking she had relieved the war of Shulva all over again. Velstadt has taken off his gloves, and twiddles his fingers in his lap. He stares at his hands, square-shaped and brown, and imagines Elana’s darker ones wrapped around his. The knight’s eye reaches her right ring finger: her skin is pulled back in the point where the finger becomes palm, as if a thin and circular thing had pushed against it for months. 

Am I not a knight? A knight I shall be. 

-I reprobate not, Your Majesty. I want to help.-

Elana opens her mouth. She stares him from upside down, as if he had just cursed every deity in Anor Londo in front of her.

-Are you skilled with furnaces?- comes out of her.

-Not really, Your Majesty.- Velstadt feels himself twinge. _I’m blushing in front of Her Majesty._ -As a lad, I had been a smith’s helper boy. Sadly, I don’t remember much of the craft. I could barely forge a cleaver.- 

Elana conjoins her hands. -A cleaver would be enough. As long as it cuts and hurts those who try to harm him.- 

Attach _him_. Velstadt understands now, and he would happily clap at Elana’s idea: yet he sees the word _no_ in her sunken eyes. _Violet eyes: so gorgeous on a dark face_. She has toned arms, skinny hands, ample and strong shoulders. No wonder a king wanted her by his side. 

 

The cleaver is twice as long as Velstadt’s bellmace. They melt a chest for the blade, and they admire its gleam side by side. There must have been amazing smiths, in Shulva: welding such a weapon may reassure them in their rotten agony.

_Would it also reassure Elana, though?_ The queen shakes her head and sniffs.

-A king welding a cleaver: what a folly.- 

_I wish I could maker her happy_. It’s as if a crude poison was devouring her from inside. She’s not corrupted like the poor king and the others – or so it seems – but she looks _cracked_ , in many places. 

-It’s admirable that you’re still thinking about him.- 

Elana pouts her lips. 

-It’s as if I was still battling. An endless war. A swarm of Yorghs, one by one coming to die like him.-

Elana’s dark face, her purple eyes, her gorgeous hair – still soft and shiny despite the poison and grime – reflect on the warm blade of the cleaver with a gray shade. A tear drips on her face and shatters on the dirty floor.

-Your Majesty…- Velstadt whispers. Elana stares at him from his feet to his face.

-Yes, majesty…- her voice cracks and she can’t hide it. -Yes, indeed. What a squalid Queen am I.-

_I wish that Sir Yorgh was still alive, damn it all: he’d die like a dog at the chiming of a bell_. But Velstadt had come in late, and he’s willing to accept it. He takes Elana’s hands, strokes them, runs his eyes all over her face. -Few people would withstand it.- 

Elana sighs, holding tightly onto his hands. -Gryth was my hope. My comfort. Handsome he was, and proud, and full of spirit. He tossed a bucket of bodily fluids on Sir Yorgh’s face from behind our windows.- 

Two more tears slip down her cheeks, her lips clench and seem to vanish into her mouth. -Ask me not how he has entered, for I don’t know. When he saw them come, as prideful as peacocks, Gryth said “Elana, my beloved, leave their leader to me: I could tolerate not for someone else to shed his blood.”.-

She bends her head backwards, clenches her teeth and eyes, as if shards of her were about to slip off her.

-Instead it was I, who murdered that accursed Sir Yorgh.I jammed my axe into his neck like executioners do. If I faulted my Gryth with this, may the Gods hold me accountable: as long as the soul of that ill-born Knight rots eternally against the blades of Nito.-

_The Gravelord is sweet, it’s known, yet he has no regard on those who commit atrocities_. Velstadt wraps his arm around the queen’s shoulder – impudent, he knows, but she deserves it.

-What should I tell your sister?-

Elana raises her head – she surely had forgotten about Nashandra, and he cannot fault her for it. He’d rather wish Vendrick’s mind was also this faulty. 

-Tell her I’m fine, and that my primary threat lays dead. Tell her your presence pleased me. Things that would make her content. Tell her I appreciated your peculiar weapon.-

Velstadt hugs his bellmace as if it was a person: Elana hits the copper with a finger, and a silvery sound gets lost in the darkness.

-It’s so beautiful…- The queen removes her hand from Velstadt’s and holds onto the metal. -Nadalia’s chime was not this sweet.-

-I can play it for you, if it pleases you.- 

Elana sits down in the corner of the smeltery, hugging her own legs on her chest. She points at him to come close, folding her fingers. Velstadt walks to her, sits by her side, and places the bellmace into her lap.

-If I have to give a giant cleaver to the King of Shulva, one might as well sing about it. Play for me, Sir Velstadt. A queen asks you.-

-And the queen will have what she desires.- 

Velstadt strokes the bell’s soundbox and blows onto it. A grey cloud spreads in the empty air in front of them.

-The War of the King with the Cleaver. It could be a nice song to sing.- Elana grins. 

-And of his survivor queen.- Velstadt murmurs. -How could you save yourself from the poison, if I may?-

Elana stares into his eyes, the violet of her irises glowing like a living heart.

-Someone protected me. Someone who loved us all. Even Nashandra.- 

Velstadt laughs, but dares ask no more. _There’s many things, way too much, that cause her pain: no surprise she’s so wrathful_. 

-If you need me in the future, I’ll come back to help you. Call for me, and I’ll be there.-

-We will think about it. Now play for me. Let us dedicate a threnody to my poor Gryth.- 

Elana shuts her eyes and sighs with half a mouth. Velstadt strokes the bellmace, but no sound raises from the soundbox. Elana’s voice, potent and cold, ascends onto the faint light of the smeltery. 

_Gravelord Nito scattered gentle creatures all over the world, so that they sung lullabies to the dead. If their voice was a tenth as sweet as this one, they’ll probably sleep sound slumbers_. 

The bell chimes, King Gryth’s cleaver cools down in its mold. Velstadt shuts his eyes, letting the voice next to him cradle him. Elana sings and sighs into the darkness, sings of a sunken city, scorched by poison; a runaway dragon, and a crew of knights obsessed by its blood, and their cries when the winged beast gave them their deserved death. Of a king with a cleaver, an executioner queen and a knight who won’t forget her.

He thinks of Nashandra and Vendrick, of Raime and Alsanna, and for a moment of Nadalia as well – wherever she is, whoever she is, he wishes for her to find a knight to confide into as well.

He looks at the queen’s closed eyes, her fingers moving around into the air, following the chiming of the bellmace, and promises himself he’ll fight by her side once more.


	17. Shards Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl named Amaltea lays trapped in a cellar at the bottom of a Painted World, with the company of a kind Father and a cold winter, waiting for her doom. Grey is the cell, and grey is her face – for there's no light left for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /due to the lack of fancast for these characters, I will be interrupting the fancast gimmick up to now/

**Prompt #17:**  Absolution

 **Definition:** 1. Reparation of a committed fault and liberation of it by accepting and suffering through the pain inflicted for the purpose. 

 **Characters:** Painter Girl, Father Ariandel the Restorer

 **Setting:** Pre-Dark Souls III, Conquest of Ariandel

 **Length:** 3.626 words. 

 

> “ _Steady steps on marble floor_
> 
> _Into my room, through broken doors_
> 
> _Trying to leave this day behind me_
> 
> _But peace will never find me.”_
> 
> ( **Marina Kaye** , _ **[Homeless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwKkjLOHd7s)**_ )
> 
>  

She opens her heavy eyes and for a moment is surprised at not seeing her bedroom.

The right cheek, pressed on the hay all night, seems to shrink back into her jaw as she scrapes it with her finger. She puffs both her cheeks, pants it out, and watches the white condense get lost in the air in front of her eyes. 

She knows she should get up, but feels no need for it. In a normal day, in the room that belongs with  her, she’d lean from the window calling Uncle Gael’s name. _It’s dawn, get up_. Rolling in the morning snow had the daily, sweet flavor of a good breakfast. But Uncle Gael has fled, and Amaltea knows because she has heard Sister Friede, from behind the door, slapping Sir Vilhelm after a chase. She doesn’t like that Vilhelm, but a part of her relishes in the belief that he’d be much nicer if he didn’t serve that annoying woman of faith. 

She rubs her hands on her eyes and studies the cellar with her eyes. It’s as motionless as a mountain: same cold, same close door with bars, same loophole as thin as her leg, from which a shaky dance of snowflakes – and same Father Ariandel, a lump of feathers and black hair, sunken into his cape in the opposite corner from her. 

Amaltea crawls to his side, and curls up on the wall against which his thigh leans. Her cellmate has always gotten up before her, and while asleep, he looks as fragile as a dry leaf; a pulsating, round mass with a tiny head on the top, completely covered by a waterfall of plumbeous, oily hair. A faint snoring raises from the open mouth, an upside down triangle, from whose sides stick out tens of thin, pointy teeth.

His hand, a greenish claw with long black nails, lays open on the floor of the cellar. Amaltea strokes it with hers and sighs. 

-Uhm, child?-

The Restorer’s voice is hoarse, slurred. His skeletal fingers free his face from the hair, and two slender, sunken eyes, follow the young woman’s minute body. 

-Well awoken, Father.- Amaltea recites. Ariandel stretches his back and sits up, his long reedy legs folded against his chest. A croaky yawn escapes his mouth. 

-I beg for forgiveness, child. I believe I’ve slept far beyond mine usual schedule.- 

-Thou hast the right.- Amaltea says. -Thou’rt tired and in pain, and needeth rest.-

Ariandel folds his mouth in a crooked smile. -Please, child. I fear naught, as long as I’m here.- He barely raises his arm, and drops it back on the stones. Amaltea wishes to shake her head at him. 

 _He’s withering, here, in front of me, and expects to hide it from me_. Uncle Gael would have been honest with her, and it’d have been better for both. _I’m a woman, not a child_ , Amaltea would tell herself. _I’m a lady and I fear naught, not even Sister Friede._ That world is her home: Sister Friede and Sir Vilhelm are but strangers, and the snow would have swallowed them like the Abyss itself. There was nothing left, for her and Father Ariandel, but waiting. 

-I had a thing to work on.- Ariandel proclaims again. -I’ve been awake for a while, allow me this, but I thought you’d deserve it.- 

-Deserve what?- 

Father Ariandel’s smile gets wider and more crooked, to the point of Amaltea turning her eyes to the tiles. His thunderous voice reaches her hair from behind the loose hair. 

-Is it not your name day, today?-.

Amaltea raises her gaze from the floor, blinking. She feels stupid for having forgotten it, and she shakes her head: Uncle Gael would not be content if he came to know those thoughts of hers. _You’re a good child_ , Uncle Gael would always say, _and you paint like no one in the world. Your art has a life of its own, and surges like a flame_. Those of Uncle Gael are good words; he knows many less than Ariandel, and his voice isn’t as deep, nor sweetened by his quirky accent, yet she knows that she’d be much happier by his side. 

The previous year, Amaltea had celebrated her name day by his side, eating boar steak and drinking, for the first time, a glass of warm cider. She felt like a real woman, a queen – sometimes, as a child, she’d also imagine herself as a princess, dreaming of a wide and bright castle with a friendly woman sitting on a throne. Fantasies that have no room for growing in their cell. 

-You guessed right, Father.- she smiles with embarrassment at Ariandel’s crooked lips. She massages her chilly hands, hiding them under her mantle; but Ariandel’s gaze lowers and Amaltea hides them behind her back as if they were stained in jam. 

-Come sit next to me, child. I have a gift for you.- 

Ariandel’s chest is scrawny under the lightweight coat, but the feathered cape is warm enough to keep her from shaking. He wraps her inside it like a blanket, his long bony hand upon her shoulder. 

Ariandel lifts a tip of his cape and pulls out something thin, pointy. Amaltea stretches her hands, rudely. 

-Father, for me?-

Ariandel places it in her hand, a new smile on his fanged mouth. 

-Yes, friend dearest. I made this paintbrush for you.- 

The handle is as thin as her finger, and curls upon itself like a branch. It has a delicate tone of beige. Amaltea holds it into her hand, stroking all its length. She gasps: it feels as if she’s holding an icicle. 

-Be careful, do not drop it. It’s wood of our firs, I ripped it through the loophole.- Ariandel grins. -Feel how cold it is.- 

Amaltea loosens her hold on the paintbrush and shakes her hand to warm it up. -How?-

-Only a paintbrush from here can paint a new world. Cold, dark…- 

-…and gentle.- Amaltea repeats. -You’re very kind, Father. I feel inspired.- 

-Wait, wait.- Father Ariandel takes her hands and runs his index all over the new brush. -Look at the bristles, child.-

Amaltea strokes them. They’re soft, black, stroked by silver strings as thin as cobwebs. 

-Do you know what material this is?- 

-No, Father.- the child answers, and she smiles at Ariandel’s tense face.

-They’re hair of mine.- Ariandel curls a strand around the clawed finger and looks at her with affectionate eyes. -You’ll see how soft they are. I cut theme where it’s not visible, that woman will never notice.- 

Amaltea cradles the paintbrush as if it was a doll, hiding it in her cloak. The Restorer’s white, sharp teeth shine in his mouth and light it up: Amaltea, more than ever, feels she needs no more. 

-Forget not, child.- Ariandel murmurs. -Your purpose is written, but ’tis much less of a burden than your uncle makes it out to be.-

There have been many great giants whose gestures she has studied about. Gough, the Hawk Knight of AnorLondo, who knocked down the mighty Kalameet in the lost Oolacile; his brother Gorgh, blacksmith of Anor Londo; Yhorm, Lord of Cinder of the Profaned Capital; Yet, was it for her, they’d all bow down to Ariandel the Restorer.

-You’re sweet, so gentle. How can you stay so strong, even now?-

Ariandel strokes her cheek, a sad smile on the crooked mouth. 

-I love this world and those who populate it. I shan’t let their hope be vain.- 

-If only Uncle Gael knew where we are.- Amaltea pulls herself closer to Ariandel’s tepid chest. -Or that kind sorcerer.-

-No, no.- Ariandel shakes his head. -The sorcerer Sulyvahn has no place here. He knows no loss, nor love. ’Tis better for is all for him to stay out there, searching for the thing he craves the most.- 

Amaltea shakes her head. Sulyvahn always smiled, when she was there with him, and would fly her above the whole Painted World. -You’re a nice girl.- he’d always say. -When your painting is done, I will teach you the greatest spells.-

Amaltea often asks herself what her life would be like if she had learned at least one spell. Just a tiny one, to rid her and Father Ariandel and all the good inhabitants of her Painted World, without staining her hands in the blood of Sister Friede.

-Maybe that sorcerer could have helped us with a charm.- she exclaims. -He could turn her into stone, or remove her memory. Or turn her into a giant cake until she promises to leave and never come back.-

-It’d be a sad end for that cleric. I could not resist to a giant cake.- 

Ariandel laughs, a fake laugh. _I’m not stupid, Father: I know you simply laugh to cheer me up_. She wonders how big giants are as children: she pictures a baby raven-haired Ariandel in her arms, cradled by gentle words. Now, her cellmate looks like a fresco left on its own, slowly coming undone and losing its bright colours point for point. 

Ariandel slithers to the front, wraps his arms around her shoulders. -I hear steps, child.- 

Amaltea shuts her eyes and listens. For a moment, she hears nothing but the howling of the wind outside of their window – but here they come, slow, humid against the moldy stairs of the cellar.

-Sister Friede.- she murmurs. -Father, stay with me.-

-Doubt it not. Never doubt, child.- 

There’s a creeping of fear at the bottom of Ariandel’s voice. Amaltea clenches her hand around his index and holds her breath as the cell is opened, and Sister Friede’s slender, grey figure walks through the opening of their cellar, scythe in her hand like a cane.

 _Once, a benevolent and peaceful queen ruled on a Painted World such as our own. She was a crossbreed, born of a paledrake and a queen of the Gods: she welded a scythe such as that, but it was not colored of that disgusting grey_. 

-Father Ariandel.- the religious woman proclaims. -And young Painter.-

-She has a name.- Ariandel growls. -Her name is Amaltea, and I won’t allow you to hurt her.-

-Your rebel spirit shan’t live for long. We have found a settlement for the child, as far from you as possible.-

Amaltea has always hated the impassible – colorless – tone of their jailor’s voice. -We’re not here to obey you. You’re not a goddess, to whom we’re to atone. You’re a stranger, unwelcome among us.- 

-I’m a woman of faith, child: Gods speak through me.- 

Friede’s voice scratches like a file on Amaltea’s ears. The girl wishes to stomp her foot. -I care not. When Uncle Gael comes to save us, there’ll be no God for you.- 

Friede doesn’t answer, and for a moment, Amaltea feels relieved. She turns to Ariandel in search of support. A cold, grey claw grabs her by the arm and knocks her down like a puppet. 

Amaltea stretches her hands forward, emits a dry wail when the floor slaps her palms. Her knees pulsate and burn, but the ground itself is cold. 

-Friede, I beg you.- Father Ariandel hands her a clawed hand, to which she clings to like a rope in the midst of a storm. -Leave her be. She’s but a little girl, and she did not choose her fate.-

Friede turns to him. -Yet her fate is sealed: I’d not allow it.- 

Ariandel clenches his fists, knuckles bursting under the thin skin. -Hurting a child: with what courage do you get out of bed?-

 _I am a woman_ , Amaltea repeats herself. _Father Ariandel is good, but in the wrong: I am a woman, and a warrior at that_. 

-If it depended from me, this child’s time in this world would have already concluded.- Friede grips on Amaltea’s shoulder, and her hands cinch themselves around her body. _She cannot hurt me_ , she repeats herself in a shaky voice: _this world is not hers_. 

-Sadly,- Friede’s thin voice is like the hissing of a snake, -a painter cannot die until their world is complete. So may she live: but far from you.- 

A cold quake runs into Amaltea’s legs. _Uncle_ , she calls, _Uncle Gael, someone_. Sister Friede, by her side, looks more gigantic than Father Ariandel. 

-You won’t hurt her.- the Restorer murmurs. -Then so it is. Good.- 

He sounds like a poor idiot, like any other giant, and this should not be. Amaltea stares at Sister Friede’s face, the thin mouth sticking out from under the veil: was she tall enough, or if the woman of faith committed the foolish act of bowing down, she’d gladly spit on her face. 

-You’re a bitter, sordid, cruel woman. I do not fear you. I won’t let you harm Father Ariandel.- 

-It’s Father Ariandel who hurts himself.- Friede gives her her back, and Amaltea clenches her fists around her mantle. _I learned this is rude before holding my first paintbrush_. -You will never worry about him anymore. In the end, he will comply.- 

-He’s strong. You don’t know him.-

Amaltea places her fists on her thighs, like the great ladies of her novels. Sister Friede doesn’t even look at her.

-As for you, you must forget her as soon as possible. We had all your canvases, colors and paintbrushes brought to the attic. You will paint as much as you wish: I am no one to deprive you of your purpose.-

Amaltea would give all her past works to be able to at least stomp her feet. She walks as barefoot as she does, but her feet are tiny and thin: maybe it’d be enough to give Father Ariandel time to run. 

 _But I should have learned: there’s no room, here, for childish fantasies_.

-I will do as you say, but allow me to say my farewell, my lady. He needs it.- 

-Sister, for you.- 

-As you prefer.- Amaltea swings on the tips of her feet. -Sister. Let me say goodbye to him.- 

A hissing “yes” escapes Sister Friede’s lips, and Amaltea throws herself into the giant’s embrace as if her own mother – or Uncle Gael – had just shown up in front of her.

-I’m afraid.- she murmurs, full of shame. Father Ariandel buries his face into her hair and faintly sobs. 

-I want you to see her this way, child. As a goddess, to whom absolve.-

Amaltea pulls herself out of the embrace, but throws herself into it one second later. -Why?-, she whispers. _If she’s a Goddess, I am a Titanite Demon. But Father Ariandel has studied religion: maybe he know something I don’t_. 

-We must, to survive. Wait and be patient. I know you can.- Ariandel murmurs. He takes her hands, covers them with his, holds them like a jewel.

-Don’t let your hands freeze.-

Father Ariandel’s eyes glow like icicles, his hands shake within his.

-Father Ariandel, please.-. The feathery neck of his cape glows, stroked by the light of the torches, and Amaltea would give all her paintbrushes to wrap herself into it – hide in its _softness_ , stay warm at least for a bit.

 _Uncle Gael is gone. Father Ariandel is locked down here with this hideous woman_. Ariandel’s paintbrush, hidden in her pocket, stings against her hand: for a moment, Amaltea imagines holding a knife, and stabbing Sister Friede’s throat with its blade. But the picture vanishes one moment later, and Amaltea wishes to pull her own hair just for having thought it. She simply hides the brush in her breeches, stuck in her childish undergarments. 

 _Some are born to give life, others to take it. And now I swear and remember: never will I ever be like Sister Friede._ Father Ariandel would never love a murderous child, and neither would Uncle Gael. 

-I will keep practicing. You will see, Father. I will never forget.- 

Father Ariandel holds her close in his harpy arms, wraps her in a soft, kind embrace. She hides her face into his back and emits a choked-up sob. 

Father Ariandel is a strong one, but kinds does not befit rulers such as him. _The sorcerer wouldn’t fall for it: he’d lunge at him, sword out, and impale Sister Friede against the wall. And so would Uncle Gael, filling her with injurious words. But I mustn’t think of it, fear is filling my mind of cruelty_. Amaltea strokes Father Ariandel’s dirty hair and rubs her face on his neck. _They won’t hurt me, Sister Friede said: but him…_

-Move now, child.-

Sister Friede’s voice pierces through Amaltea’s eardrums. Ariandel’s hold gets stronger, a new sob escapes his teeth. -Please, do not forget.- he murmurs. -Forget not. Swear it to me, little Amaltea. It’ll be fine. I have no fear.- 

Amaltea lets go of his shoulders and moves to Sister Friede. 

-We can go, if so you want.- she murmurs. -Father Ariandel is fine.- 

Sister Friede does not answer: she takes her hand, leading her up the stairs, a cold and grey hold, as cold as frost. Amaltea is silent, feeling the tip of her gift sting her thigh. _Uncle Gael welded a big dark sword: maybe he could have thought me some fencing, and it’d all be different_. 

Sir Vilhelm awaits in his black armor, helm finely fit atop his head, and holds her hand like a tutor, taking her with him. _I will wash this hand as soon as I can_. 

-Your lady will harm Father Ariandel. Why do you serve her?-

Vilhelm’s hold loosens. The knight raises his covered face to the ceiling, far from her. 

-Look at me, when I talk to you.- Amaltea repeats. -She’s not a goddess, she’s a no one, yet you serve her as if you have to absolve something with her.- 

Vilhelm says nothing, long and awkward seconds. 

-Not everybody is like your uncle, child, or our old sorcerer friend.- he eventually babbles out. Amaltea shrugs. 

-They ran off, and acted for themselves in good or bad.- 

-I know what happened to the sorcerer.- Vilhelm murmurs. -His ambition and obsession destroyed a kingdom, shattered a royal family and eternally separated two devoted lovers.-

Amaltea tightens her small fists. -I cannot explain such cruelty.- 

-I can, child, and I deeply regret it.- Vilhelm strokes her hair, freeing her face from the loose strands. -He loved, but was not loved back. I know what he feels. I am devoted do Sister Friede and I will remain, in the name of this sword.- 

More than ever, Amaltea is ashamed of her violent thoughts. _Vilhelm is a weak man, and he behaves in accord to his nature. He’s not a bad man_. She reminds herself many times, as they proceed side by side to the attic. 

-There, you’ll be warm.- Vilhelm whispers. -I know you need no nourishment, but if you need anything, request and it’ll be granted.- 

 _I cannot resist_. Amaltea forces herself to grin. -What would Sister Friede think of you?- 

Sir Vilhelm pulls himself back, hand tightened on his cape. _Obsidian black: deep, elegant color, not befit of such a weak willed man_. Black is the color of Nito, First of the Dead, whose sweet arms offer comfort and rest to the dead. Uncle Gael said Nito spent his hours in a remote catacomb, hosting his new pupils one by one – and it’s the color of Ariandel, his smooth hair as long as a tent underneath which she can hide, and his thin nails, fitting for running through the pages of ancient tomes rather than embracing a prisoner child.

 _No, I’m not a child_ : Amaltea clenches her fists and looks at Sir Vilhelm with disgust. _I’m a woman and I will be safe_. 

 

Yet, when Sir Vilhelm moves away and the ladder that leads to her attic is lifted to keep her inside, Amaltea feels a sudden need to cry. 

There’s a window, but the thin blue that escapes it does not reassure her. Canvases and paintbrushes lay bundled up on a stool, a chilling white stain from which shards of different colours escape. Only that one canvas – the new world that would rise, could she only see the flame – waits straight up, like an altar devoid of new offerings. 

_I must see Friede as a goddess to atone to: but how? Haven’t we suffered enough?_

Amaltea pulls out her new paintbrush and holds it to her chest. It smells of sheepskin, moss, _Ariandel_. Friede has given her a small atelier – there’s such a thing as benevolent goddesses, but that won’t be enough for her to join their lot. She undoes her ponytail and fits her cap atop her forehead. She wants to paint her hair, cleanse them of that chilling white and color them with the faces of Father Ariandel and Uncle Gael and the sorcerer and even Sir Vilhelm. She has seen him devoid of helm, once: a bald, nondescript head, eyes as dark as his armor above reddish, beardless cheeks. It does not look like the face of the priest for an evil goddess.

They had offered her patience, listening. Ariandel has offered her all of himself, yet they have never absolved whatever they have committed in the eyes of that _mad_ woman. _She won’t have my tears as well. For what concerns me, I have absolved enough_. Now she will paint, because she likes it, because she can, because Uncle Gael and Father Ariandel would be mighty proud if she practiced.

She finds a clean canvas underneath a bunch in the corner, a bottle of blue ink waits in a tray. Amaltea rattles it and shuts her eyes, picturing Ariandel knocking his jailor down with a sword, like a knight from the old days with a dragon. Not a more improbable subject than a new world. 


End file.
